Stainless and Honorable Lives
by Scullspeare
Summary: Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that leads to Sam going missing, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. Casefic. Story is now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**SUMMARY:** Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that has Sam teaming with someone he never thought he'd meet, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. _Casefic. Chapter 1 of 4._

**SPOILERS:** _Technically, the story is set within Season 9, post trial-related fallout, but is a standalone case-fic–no spoilers–and may become slightly AU depending on what happens in Tuesday's Season 9 premiere. Right now, though, it fits within canon._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen calls them. _

**WORD COUNT:**_ Chapter One: 5K+ Complete story: 24K_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort_

**A/N:**_ A scene set late in Season 8 inspired this case-fic. Which one will become obvious as the fic progresses, but to state it here may spoil things. __ It's four chapters long, and all chapters are complete. I'll post every other day this week. Many thanks and big hugs to my beta, Harrigan; my stories are always better with your help. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thanks also to Freya for the encouragement to get this done. And Suzee51: the scene you wanted the last time around that wasn't there? It shows up here. Cryptic enough? __ ;-) On the whumpage front, I'll just say that neither brother escapes this fic unscathed. (Shocking I know, coming from me.) Enjoy! Written to fill the 'Job-related Injury' square in my _h/c Bingo card over on LJ.

**STAINLESS AND HONORABLE LIVES**

**Chapter One**

The bullet did more than rip a hole through his shoulder; it slammed him into the brick wall and dropped him on his ass.

For a few far-too-brief moments, shock numbed all feeling. Head fuzzy, vision blurry and coughing as he sucked air back into lungs emptied by the violent collision with the wall, Sam felt nothing. His head lolled forward and he watched detachedly as blood darkened his suit jacket around the ragged bullet hole and blossomed across his white shirt beneath.

"_Sammy_?"

He sluggishly rolled his head toward his brother's voice; it came from his phone. Knocked from his hand when he was attacked, it lay on the road about ten feet from him…too far to reach. "De…."

Pain stole his voice, the welcome numbness now gone. Sam screwed his eyes closed as the soft burn quickly became white hot, intense jolts shooting through his shoulder, down his arm and across his back. He swallowed against rising bile, fighting both the urge to puke, and to stay conscious.

"Fuck…fuck."

The curse came from the man who'd shot him. He slid in and out of focus as Sam opened his eyes and stared blearily up at him. His attacker's gaze jumped from the growing blood stain on his victim's shirt to the still-smoking gun in his hand, seemingly in shock at what he'd just done.

His partner was even more on edge, his eyes darting about the street in search of any witnesses to the shooting. He reached out suddenly, grabbing the gunman's sleeve and tugging on it. "We're outta here. Move!"

They turned, started to run but came to an abrupt halt, their path blocked by…what the hell was it?

"What the f–"

There was more than one. And whatever they were, they were big–bigger than both men who'd attacked him. Sam squinted against the streetlight above, its harsh light putting a halo around everything. He flinched at the sound of another gunshot, quickly followed by an odd metallic sound and a flash of something bright. There was a kaleidoscope of movement that made him dizzy, punctuated by an agonized scream.

That scream seemed to cut through the fog in Sam's head and his eyes focused. He saw one of his attackers running away at top speed, leaving his partner behind. The gunman was on his knees, but staggered to his feet, then stumbled away, disappearing around a corner leaving a trail of blood behind him.

The newcomers didn't give chase, but turned their attention to Sam.

They moved closer, staring down at him. Sam swallowed, willing his vision to stay in focus as he returned their stares. Son of bitch…. It couldn't be. The facts of the case that had brought them here filled his head, swirling around in a jumbled mess. It made no sense. But if he was right, he knew what he had to say. "Mercy…." Sam was fading; he swallowed, forcing out the words. "I ask…for mercy…."

His eyes slid closed. From off in the distance, he heard his brother yell over the phone.

"_Sam!"_ Fear mixed with fury in Dean's voice. _"If you fuckers hurt him, there is no place you can hide that I won't find you."_

Sam almost managed a smile.

**xxxXXXxxx**

**Ten hours earlier…**

**The Bunker, Lebanon, Kansas – **Dean glanced at the caller I.D. then lifted the phone to his ear. "Garth–what's up?"

"_Dean_. _Need your help, dude."_

"You OK?"

"_Oh, yeah…yeah. I'm fine. It's just there's, um,_ _something weird going down_."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Weird is what we do, man. You wanna narrow it down a tad?"

"_Oh…right. OK. Broadswords. That narrow enough?" Garth snickered over the phone. "That was good, right? Broad…narrow."_

"Broadswords?" Dean stopped pacing and raised an eyebrow at Sam. His brother sat back from his laptop, the word obviously piquing his interest, too. Dean pressed the speaker button, and set down the phone on the bunker's map table. "OK, you've got our attention."

"_Seven days ago a serial rapist was found fried on Chicago's El-train tracks."_

"Nice to know there's some justice in the world." Dean resumed pacing. "But a sword ties into it how?"

"_He was, um, in two pieces when they found him. Initially they thought he'd been run over by a train but the coroner's report says the damage was done by, quote, 'something like a large sword'–__before__ he was tossed onto the tracks."_

Sam's chair creaked as he leaned in toward the phone. "What are the cops saying?"

"_Not much. But the intended victim said that when the rapist attacked her, the platform, quote, 'filled with this bright red crackling light.' It was enough of a distraction that she was able to kick him in the jewels and get away. She heard a scream as she ran down the steps to the street, but never looked back–good call, if you ask me. By the time Chicago P.D. got up to the platform, her attacker was toast–literally–and no sign of anyone, or anything, else."_

Dean scrubbed a hand over his head. "OK, so far the world's down one scumbag. What else have you got?"

"_Fast forward four days and jump west to San Francisco. Two known drug dealers were taken out. Vic number one was decapitated, vic number two was run through and left to bleed out. He was still alive when 5-0 got there, lived just long enough to babble something about…." A rustling of papers came over the phone. "Get this–'came out of the red lightning…carrying swords.'"_

"Red lightning?" Sam looked over at Dean. "Why do I feel we should know that?"

Dean stopped pacing. "Garth, you sure that first body was toasted–not mummified?"

"_Mummified?"_

Sam's eyes widened. "You're thinking Chronos?"

"_Um…I thought you dudes killed him in that whole Back to the Future/Untouchables mash-up?"_

"We did," Dean growled. "Doesn't mean something else didn't borrow his M.O. Was that first body mummified?"

"_Um..." There was more rustling of papers. "No…definitely fried. At least part of him was sprawled right across the live track–and no sign of, um, frying or mummification in the second case."_

"OK, scratch Chronos wannabe." Dean frowned. "But Chicago to Frisco in four days–that's a big leap if these cases are connected."

"_Yeah, even for our kind of suspects. SFPD is thinking gang turf war…maybe Yakuza. But the wounds are all wrong for that. No way were they made with a bushido blade."_

"Bushido?" Dean scowled down at the phone. "No offence, but since when are you an expert in Japanese swords?"

"_Since the Thighslapper Brewery case, dude. With what happened with that Shojo?" Garth whistled. "I keep a blessed blade in my car–__and__ I've been practicing."_

Dean massaged the back of his neck, his muscles tensing at even the thought of Garth with a sword. "Look, as intrigued as I am, so far this…whatever it is, is just picking off human garbage. What do you need us to do?"

"_My ride just died." Garth sighed. "Guess she didn't like the express haul from Chi-town to San Fran. It's gonna be a few days before they can find the parts, fix'er up, so–"_

"What?" Dean shrugged at Sam. "You need bus fare?"

"_No…no. Oh, I didn't tell you about the third attack, did I?"_

"No, you didn't." Dean's knuckles whitened as he squeezed a chair back. "What third attack?"

"_The one in St. Louis–yesterday. You gents are a lot closer, can get there a lot faster than me. I kinda hoped you'd pick up the case before it goes cold."_

"Damn, this thing gets around." Sam turned to his computer and began tapping keys. "Who died in St. Louis?"

"_No one. That's why we need to jump on this. A mugger, get this, got his hand chopped off–right after knocking down an old man, the owner of some mom and pop outfit on a bank run. The mugger grabbed the cash, took off, but didn't make it a block before he was pole-axed by 'some big guy–with a sword.' He wouldn't talk to the cops but a paramedic swears that's what he said."_

Dean snorted. "OK, we've got a Highlander fan turned vigilante, apparently with the ability to teleport. That ringing any bells for anyone?"

"_Highlander…I loved that show. Remember when–"_

"Garth, focus." Sam glanced over his laptop at the phone. "No red light or…red lightning this time?"

"_Nope, not according to the police report. Of course, the dude wasn't exactly co-operative…and he was bleeding out. The only thing he gave the cops was the finger–with the, um, one hand he still had…not the one they picked up from–"_

"We get the picture." Dean reached for his phone. "We'll talk to him…jog his memory."

"_Thanks, dudes–you need me, you know where I am. I owe you one. Later"_

Dean hung up the phone. "One, huh? Don't think math is one of Garth's strong suits."

Sam smiled as he hit the print button on his laptop. "OK, I've got copies of the police reports from Chicago, San Francisco and St. Louis. We can go over them on the drive to Missouri."

Dean raised an eyebrow as he watched the printer start to spit out paper. "That was fast–even for you.

Sam pushed his chair away from the table. "I kinda tagged Garth's computer the last time we met up with him–you know, in case he disappeared on us again." He shrugged, looking only slightly guilty. "He would've sent them if we'd asked."

"You're a fine, upstanding, white collar criminal, Sammy." Dean's grin faded as he turned to glance in the direction of the bunker's bedrooms. "We're leaving again." He sighed. "For the first time in my life I have a bed I like, and a bed that likes me–and we rarely get to sleep together."

Sam smiled as he snatched up the papers from the printer. "Come on. The sooner we get this mess cleaned up, the sooner we'll be home again–then you and your bed can have fun making up."

"Hilarious." But as Sam left the room, Dean smiled–not at the jibe, but at one simple word: home. He liked the sound of that.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Huh."

Dean glanced over at Sam in the passenger seat of the Impala. They were about two hours into the seven-hour trip; so far, they'd gone over the police reports, arranged access to the latest victim who was in St. Louis's University Hospital and hypothesized up the yin-yang about what could be behind the attacks. Sam had been in touch with a handful of trusted hunters, checking up on demonic and angelic activity in the area, while also running searches for anything that tied swords and the three cities together. He'd cross-referenced murders using swords, Civil War re-enacters, military buffs, weapons collectors–you name it. He'd even texted Charlie to see if she or her Ren-Faire crew knew of anything that might fit the bill. So far, they had squat. Now his brother was staring at the screen of his phone, his brow deeply furrowed. "Huh, what?"

"It's a text from Charlie." Sam ran his finger over the screen as he scrolled through the message. "There might be something here."

Dean groaned. "Please tell me she's not digging into this case, not on her own. She–"

"Chill." Sam shook his head. "More like costume research for her next visit to Moondor. Two weeks ago she was at The Art Institute of Chicago. It hosted a traveling exhibit called _The Chivalry of Arthur's Court_. The items are all on loan from a London museum and illustrate the story of King Arthur and Camelot. It's mostly paintings but there's also a replica of the Round Table, clothing, armor, items from court life–and a collection of antique weapons, including swords. There's a link to the schedule for the exhibit…." He tapped the screen. "And, yeah…Chicago, San Francisco and St. Louis are all on the list."

Dean's frown now matched Sam's. "You're thinking something hitchhiked a ride with one of the objects in the exhibit?"

"I was, but apparently no." Sam shifted in his seat to face his brother. "Did you know Charlie now carries an EMF detector?"

"She what?"

"Yeah. She writes….'_Dudes, you seriously need to check this out–even if it doesn't tie into your case. Major awesome.'_ That's followed by three exclamation points. Then, '_BTW, ran EMF–nada. Sigh. Would love to meet Guinivere's spirit. Me and Lance? Definitely on the same page there. Peace out._'"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's healthy–crushing on a ghost. So, no EMF but the exhibit has been to all three cities where the attacks took place."

"Well, no…at least not yet." Sam gave a frustrated exhale as he flipped through the police reports, cross-checking them with the schedule on his phone. "The exhibit closed in Chicago three days before the first murder, and it's not scheduled to open in St. Louis until Friday." He shook his head. "And it won't be in San Francisco until the end of next month. Huh…."

"Would you stop with the _huhs_…." Dean scowled at his brother. "What now?"

Sam looked up from his phone. "Turns out the original schedule had the exhibit going from Chicago to San Francisco. Plans changed last minute when a pipe burst in the wing being renovated to house the collection out west. Repairs couldn't be finished in time so the museums in St. Louis and San Francisco changed timeslots."

Dean's frown deepened. "So the attacks followed the original schedule…but the timing's all off. So…coincidence?"

"My gut says no." Sam glanced again from his phone to the police reports. "The El-train station where the first victim was fried is less than a block from Chicago's art institute, and the drug dealers were killed in a parking lot next to the California museum." He shrugged. "Look, I know it's thin, but when it comes to swords, there's not a lot here to work with. I think it's something we should at least check out before we ditch it completely."

"Museums." Dean feigned a shudder. "OK, new plan. You dig out that jacket with the patches on the elbows and go hang out with the stuffy types at the museum. I'll go chat with the one-armed man, play bad cop, see what I can get. We meet up afterwards, exchange notes, decide then whether this exhibit thing is a dead end–no pun intended."

"Deal." Sam punched a number into his phone and hit send. It was answered on the second ring. "This is Special Agent Osbourne with the F.B.I.. I'd like to speak with your curator, Dr. Malcolm Carstairs. He may be able to help with a murder investigation."

**xxxXXXxxx**

"I didn't do nothin'."

Mickey Rogan scowled up at Dean from his hospital bed. His right arm, which the hospital's trauma team had surgically reattached, was completely swathed in bandages, right down to the fingertips, and resting on a pillow at his side. IV's were attached to his left arm, in the back of his hand and at the elbow. Beneath the sheets, his right ankle was handcuffed to the bed. A local cop, obviously on the shift sergeant's shit list, had drawn guard duty outside the room.

"'You didn't do nothin'–a double negative, which technically means you did _something_." Dean, wearing a sterile gown over his suit, smiled coldly. "See, I didn't sleep through all my grammar classes. And mugging an old man, stealing from him, putting him in a room down the hall with a cracked skull–all for a bag of change? Yeah, that definitely qualifies as _something_. Now, why don't you cut the bullshit, and tell me what went down."

Mickey's eyes narrowed. "I'm the victim. They cut off my fucking arm. Why aren't you going after the psychos who did this instead of harassing me?"

Dean took a step forward, biting back a satisfied smile when Mickey flinched. "To do that, we need to know who to go after." The mugger's snarled response had given him at least one new piece of information. "You said _they_. _They_ cut off your arm_._ _Psychos_–plural. If you saw nothing, how do you know there was more than one?"

Mickey rolled his head across the pillow, his expression sullen. "There were three of them–that I saw."

Dean frowned. "Three _men_?"

"What the fuck…of course, men." He motioned to his arm. "You think chicks could do this?"

Dean snorted; not exactly what he'd meant but he'd work with it. "Listen, tough guy, I know plenty of _chicks_ who could take you down with one arm tied behind their back–and not in a fun way. Did all three of them have swords?"

Mickey turned sullen again. "I only saw one sword–when it was cutting my arm off. Two of them grabbed me while the other was…muttering something weird."

"Define weird."

"Dunno…guy had an accent, it was hard to tell what he was saying…." Mickey turned his scowl on Dean. "Something about…might makes right and protecting his mistress."

Dean's eyebrow peaked. "Mistress?"

"I told you it didn't make any fucking sense. I ain't been screwing around with anybody's old lady." Mickey stared down at his injured arm. "And I was a little busy bleeding out to ask for details."

Dean tapped his fist on the bed's safety rail. "When these guys showed up, you see a red light?"

"What?"

"A red light. It might have flashed, kind of like lightning."

Mickey snorted. "You're as fucking crazy as they are."

Dean's expression stayed neutral. "You give the local cops a description of the three men?"

"I don't talk to cops."

"Fine then. Talk to me. I'm here for as long as it takes." Dean pulled a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket. "Let's start with the guy with the sword."

Forty-five minutes later, and after a few veiled threats from Dean about removing Mickey's other arm, he had vague descriptions of all three attackers. Leaving the room, he tossed his robe in the disposal bin, nodded at the bored cop seated by the door, then pulled his phone from his pocket as he walked down the corridor toward the elevators. Opening his address book, he tapped Sam's number.

"_Dean."_

"You done?"

"_About five minutes ago. I'm on my way to the bar around the corner from the museum. You get anything?"_

"Dude says he was attacked by three men with accents–couldn't decide between Russell Brand and Crocodile Dundee. Did say one of them muttered something about…." Dean checked his notebook. "'Might makes right' and 'his mistress,' right before slicing off his arm. That mean anything to you?"

"_Might makes right…mistress... No…no, that's not right. It's 'distress' not 'mistress.'" Sam now sounded excited. "It's 'Right must be defended against might and distress must be protected.'"_

"OK." Dean frowned as he pressed the _Down_ button for the elevator. "You just pull that out of your ass?"

"_No, Dean–it's Arthurian code of honour…one of the vows the Knights of the Round Table took when they were called to serve. The old man who was mugged was in distress, had his property stolen, so they went after his attacker–defending right against might. And cutting off the hand of a thief–that's about as Biblical as it comes. The knights were all devout men."_

Dean shook his head as he stepped into the elevator. "Dude, we really should patent that brain of yours–or at least donate it to science when you're done with it."

Sam snorted. _"I've just spent an hour and a half talking to the curator here about all things Camelot. It's kinda fresh."_

Dean was the only one in the elevator as the doors closed. "Well, Rogan fought with these guys–they're solid, which means some kind of human. So, what? Cosplayers who took the game off the reservation?"

"_How does that explain the red lightning?"_

"It doesn't. But FYI–Rogan confirmed he didn't see any red light."

Sam's huff of frustration came clearly across the phone. _"We're like two out of three on every lead."_

"I know. What'd you get from the curator?"

"_We talked about the exhibit, the history behind the pieces….nothing really stood out. Most of the really cool items, the likely suspects for our purposes, are replicas. He did give me an inventory list, which includes provenance. Once we get a motel, we can go through it, item by item, see if anything raises a red flag."_

An item-by-item inventory check. Yeah, that sounded like fun. Dean's shoulders slumped a little as the _ding _announced the car had reached the lobby and the elevator doors opened. "Well, stay put at the bar 'til I get there. If we've got a night of research ahead of us, I want a drink–or four–first."

Sam chuckled. _"Fine. First round's on me. I-oof." _There was a clatter as his brother dropped the phone.

"Dude, if you walked into a streetlight again, I swear I'm buying you a helmet." Dean's smile faded quickly when there was no answer. "Sam?"

"_Whoa. Put the gun away. You want my wallet, just take it."_

Gun? Fuck. Heart racing, Dean picked up the pace as he crossed the hospital lobby; he was about ten minutes away from Sam but, right now, it felt like the other side of the planet

There was another grunt from his brother and what sounded like Sam being slammed against a wall. _"Take it easy…take it easy. I was just reaching for my wallet…that's all. It's in my back pocket."_

"_Shut the fuck up and keep your hands where we can see'em….Yo, Joey–the watch."_

"_I'm getting it. I– Fuck, he's got a piece."_

Dean didn't know either of those voices–but he knew the moment Sam decided to fight back by the sounds of a scuffle breaking out. He heard punches landing, the unmistakable sound of bone smashing into bone, the grunt of air being forcibly expelled from lungs. Then he heard a gunshot.

Dean froze. "Sammy?" There was no answer. Inside the hospital lobby, all sound faded away save for the pounding of his heart, hammering against his chest. The two strained voices over the phone burst that bubble of silence.

"_Fuck…fuck." _

"_We're outta here. Move!"_

Dean heard the footsteps of at least two people running, then stop abruptly.

"_What the f–_

A second gunshot made him jump; that was quickly followed by the clang of something metallic, more scuffling, yelling that drowned out other voices and then a loud, agonized scream. Dean's knuckles whitened as subconsciously he tightened his grip on the phone. But the scream wasn't Sam's.

Someone was running again–then two someones–but the second person's steps were much slower, more stuttered that the first, and punctuated by pained curses. Both the voice and the footsteps faded as they moved away from the phone.

"_Mercy…."_

Dean's stomach lurched. That was Sam's voice–weak and in pain.

There were more footsteps–slower, heavier and moving toward the phone.

"_I ask…for mercy."_

"Sam!" The footsteps came closer to the phone. Dean swallowed. "If you fuckers hurt him, there is no place you can hide that I won't find you." He jumped at the deafening crackle just before the line went dead.

Dean broke into a run, oblivious to the surprised looks from others walking through the lobby as he bolted for the parking lot and the Impala.

By the time Dean got close to the museum, he didn't have to guess where whatever had happened had gone down. Two police cruisers were blocking off a section of the street, red and blue flashing lights visible from more than a block away. Crowds were already starting to gather behind rapidly erected police barricades.

He pulled the Impala to the curb, and launched himself from the car. The cop trying to block his access didn't even get chance to protest before Dean flashed his FBI badge and shouldered his way past.

Quickly scanning the scene, he saw no sign of Sam–just two uniformed officers, one talking into his shoulder radio, and both standing behind a third cruiser parked next to the sidewalk. He felt sick when one of the cops bent down to lay a black tarp over something on the ground–something hidden from his view by the police car.

"Stand by." The cop released the button on the radio and scowled up at Dean as he approached "Who the hell are you?"

Again, Dean flashed his badge. But he wasn't looking at the cop as he moved around the cruiser; his focus was on the ground and the black tarp.

He swallowed. Whatever was underneath was way too small for Sam–way too small for a body, but that didn't stop of the burn of bile in his throat. He glanced at the officer crouched beside the sheet and jabbed his finger at the tarp. "Show me."

The second cop raised an eyebrow but obediently lifted the corner. Underneath was a severed arm, a handgun still clutched in its fingers. The jacket sleeve covering the arm was leather, the gun some late model Glock–neither of them Sam's.

"How the hell did the Bureau beat our own suits here?" That was from the first cop.

"This may be connected to a case I'm working on." Dean scanned the crime scene, looking for any clue to his brother's whereabouts. "There was no one here when you showed up?"

The first cop shook his head. "But the owner of that…." He pointed to the arm. "He didn't get far. My partner followed a blood trail down that alley. He's with him now…perp collapsed less than a block from here. Ambulance has already been dispatched."

Dean squinted against the bright lights as he scanned the scene. "And he was alone?"

The cop nodded. "When we found him, yeah. But I don't think he was the only one bleeding after whatever went down."

Dean's stomach lurched again. "What makes you say that?"

The second cop stood up, pulling a flashlight from his belt. "There's a pool of blood here, where the severed arm was found." He shone the beam off to the left. "A blood trail from it leads that way, down the alley and right to the guy Bailey is with now."

"But over here…." Cop Number 1 shone his flashlight on the brick wall. "We have blood spatter, then blood drops that lead off to the right." He shrugged at Dean. "C.S.I.'s get the big bucks but I'd say that's from a second victim."

Yeah. And there was a damn good chance that second victim was Sam. "Anyone follow that trail?"

The cop shook his head as he clicked off the flashlight. "We're still securing the scene. Once the suits get here, we'll check it out, see if there's any more and where it leads."

Dean nodded tersely. "You do that." But he'd check it out first.

"You're here because of that other attack, right?" Cop Number Two glanced down at the severed arm. "The mugger who got his arm chopped off two days ago? What kind of psycho have we got on the loose here?"

"I'll let you know." Dean pulled out his own flashlight and shone the beam along the brick wall, across the sidewalk and onto the road. There, the light hit something he recognized all too well–Sam's phone. It was crushed and sitting next to the curb just in front of one of the cruisers. He clicked off the light; the local cops didn't seem to have picked up on it–yet. Understandably, the severed arm had drawn their attention.

Dean glanced over at the crowd behind the barricade; it had almost doubled in size since he'd arrived. "You question the crowd yet?"

Each cop shook his head.

"Then I'd get started if I were you. A few are already wandering off."

Neither cop looked too happy to be taking orders from a fed, but nodded and moved off toward the barricades. Dean took a knee and feigned re-tying his shoelace, before scooping up Sam's trashed phone. It would tell him nothing, but now it would tell the cops even less.

Slipping the phone into his pocket, Dean stood up and walked toward the blood spatter on the wall. Was it Sam's blood? If it was, the bullet wound was most likely a through and through; too much blood for a flesh wound and if the bullet was still in the victim–in Sam–there's no way there'd be spatter on the wall like that. "Son of a bitch…." A through-and-through could cause a hell of a lot of damage and without help, Sam could bleed out fast. Where the hell had he gone?

He clicked on his flashlight and began following the blood trail. "Damn it, Sammy–where are you?"

**To be continued…**

**A/N:** _And we're off…. Hope you enjoyed it. If you have a moment, I'd love to hear from you. Next chapter up Tuesday. Hopefully, it will serve as an appetizer to the main course – the Season 9 premiere. Cheers!_


	2. Chapter 2

19

**SUMMARY:** Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that has Sam teaming with someone he never thought he'd meet, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. _Casefic. Chapter 2 of 4._

**SPOILERS:** _Technically, the story is set within Season 9, post trial-related fallout, but is a standalone case-fic–no spoilers–and may become slightly AU depending on what happens in Tuesday's Season 9 premiere. Right now, though, it fits within canon._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen calls them. _

**WORD COUNT:**_ Chapter One: 5K+ Complete story: 24K_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort_

**A/N:**_ A scene set late in Season 8 inspired this case-fic. Which one will become obvious as the fic progresses, but to state it here may spoil things. __ It's four chapters long, and all chapters are complete. I'll post every other day this week. Many thanks and big hugs to my beta, Harrigan; my stories are always better with your help. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thanks also to Freya for the encouragement to get this done. And Suzee51: the scene you wanted the last time around that wasn't there? It shows up in this story. Cryptic enough? __ On the whumpage front, I'll just say that neither brother escapes this fic unscathed. (Shocking I know, coming from me.) Written to fill the 'Job-related Injury' square in my __h/c Bingo card over on LJ. A great big thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews of Chapter One. They are very much appreciated. And now, on with Chapter Two. Enjoy._

**STAINLESS AND HONORABLE LIVES**

**Chapter Two**

Sam was vaguely aware of being hoisted off the ground and his good arm slung around someone's neck. Arms encircled his waist from both sides, keeping him upright. He tried to get his feet to move, keep pace with whoever was holding him up, but they dragged uselessly along the ground.

His chin was on his chest, his head too heavy to lift, and his eyes refused to open. Around him sounds were muted, like everything was underwater. He tried to ask what the hell was going on but all he could summon was an unintelligible croak.

The effort proved too much, the pull of unconsciousness too strong. Sounds faded, lights dimmed and then he was aware of nothing.

There was no gentle release from unconsciousness. One moment Sam was blissfully unaware, the next screaming jolted him awake; it took a few moments more for his brain to catch up, to realize the screams were his own. Pain ripped through him, the stench of burning flesh right under his nose. He was lying on his stomach, rough hands holding his arms and legs, pinning him down. Fueled by fear and adrenaline, he fought back, instinctively flipping himself over to face his attackers.

Eyes wild, he glared up at the unfamiliar faces hovering over him. There were three of them; Sam ignored the two now grabbing his arms, again pinning him to the floor. His focus was on the one with the sword, the blade of the weapon red-hot and smoking. His struggles intensified as the sword was lowered toward him. "No…no…no!" He screamed as the metal touched his skin, his body bucking violently until the searing pain again ripped consciousness from him.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean took a gulp of bitter, vending machine coffee, checked his phone for the millionth time, then resumed pacing the hospital waiting room, ready to punch the wall in frustration. The gunman who'd lost his arm had been in surgery for hours–seven and counting–as the trauma team tried to reattach the severed limb. Nurses had emerged to offer periodic updates but it would still be hours more before the patient was coherent enough to offer any clue as to what the hell had happened–or where Sam might have gone.

Hanging around the hospital was a waste of time. Dean set off down the corridor toward the elevators.

There had been no word from, or about, his brother. Dean had checked admissions at all other hospitals–and morgues–in the city but there was no one fitting Sam's description. There had been no calls to Dean's phone, and the blood trail from the crime scene had dried up less than a block away. Fueled only on coffee, Dean had spent the hours since his brother's disappearance combing the streets north and east of the crime scene and had squat to show for it. Now that he'd checked in with the hospital, he was ready to search the streets to the west, and then start all over again if necessary until he turned up something, anything, that would lead him to Sam.

His phone rang, call display showing a number he didn't recognize. "Yeah."

"_Agent Ward?"_

Dean froze in his tracks. That was the name on his current FBI badge and business card. He didn't know the voice. "Yeah. Who is this?"

There was no answer.

"Look, I'm in the middle of case. I don't have time for screwing around so_–_"

"_Come to the Church of St. Michael and St. George on Wydown Boulevard–side entrance."_

Dean scowled. "Who the hell is this?"

"My name…." The caller hesitated._ "My name is Greg Jeffers–Reverend Greg Jeffers. We found your card in Sam Osbourne's jacket."_

"Sam? Is he there?" Dean's heart rate picked up. "Put him on the phone–now!"

"_Please, we'll explain everything, I promise. Just…come quickly." _The caller hung up.

"Son of a bitch." Dean didn't need to be told twice. He dropped his coffee in the nearest trash can and bolted down the hospital corridor.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam opened his eyes, but his vision was slow to focus. He felt weak, nauseous and way too warm. He wanted nothing more than to kick off the heavy blankets that covered him, but the signal from his brain to his legs seemed to have short-circuited.

A hand slid beneath his head, lifting it off the pillow and a cup was pressed to his lips. "Drink this–you're dehydrated."

Sam coughed as he drank, as much water running down his chin as down his throat, but it tasted good, damn good, chasing away the rank, woolly taste in his mouth. Then, the cup was gone and his head returned to the pillow. "Dean?" His voice was barely audible, even to himself.

"Dean will be here soon. Rest…get your strength back."

Sam frowned; he didn't know the voice. He tried to sit up but crumpled with a groan, pain ripping through his shoulder, his head spinning. He screwed his eyes closed, fighting the urge to puke.

"Whoa there, son. I think it's a bit too soon to start moving about."

Sam peeled open his eyes and rolled his head toward the voice; it belonged to a bald, sixty-ish man wearing glasses and a clerical collar. The stranger wrung out a cloth over a steel bowl filled with water, then leaned in to wipe the cloth over Sam's face. Sam weakly batted away his hand. "Where…." He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

"You're in my church. I'm Greg Jeffers, the minister here. It's Sam, right?" Rev. Jeffers held up Sam's FBI badge, blood smeared across the photo and shield. "Sam Osbourne?"

Sam's gaze locked on the blood. Jumbled images spun through his head–talking on the phone with Dean…being slammed into a brick wall…a fight…a gunshot. Subconsciously, he reached for his shoulder.

Rev. Jeffers stopped him. "You were shot…lost a lot of blood."

Sam swallowed; that explained a few things–just not why he was in what looked like the furnace room of a church. "Why am I here?"

The minister looked uncomfortable. "I'm sure you expected to wake up in a hospital…." He glanced across the room. "But…they thought this was for the best."

They? Sam followed Rev. Jeffers' line of sight and his eyes widened. Three men, wearing chain mail and leather, looking like they'd wandered in from a medieval battle, stood on the far side of the room, watching him. One was pacing, worry painted clearly across his features; another stood leaning against an old wooden work bench, cutting slices from an apple with a large knife–but it was the tallest of the three who held Sam's attention; he stood with one foot up on an old crate and a massive sword resting across his bent knee. As Sam's eyes met his, the man ran a whetstone along the edge of the sword, the metallic screech setting Sam's teeth on edge.

He'd seen these men before–out on street. They'd attacked the muggers who shot him.

"Are you a man of faith, Agent Osbourne?"

Sam ignored the question, his focus locked on the sword and the rhythmic grating of stone on metal. A jumble of new images flooded his head–the strangers holding him down…the blade of that sword glowing red… searing heat, blinding pain…. "What the hell did you do to me?"

The whetstone stalled, midstroke, the man holding it giving a slight shrug. "You asked for mercy–we granted it."

Mercy? Yes…he'd asked for mercy. Sam's eyes widened further when he remembered why. _Never refuse mercy to him that asketh mercy…._ He jumped when the reverend placed a hand on his arm.

"Do you believe, agent? Have faith in things beyond the science your job demands?"

Sam's breathing escalated, making him dizzy, but his attention was still locked on the sword. "I believe…in more things than you can imagine."

Rev. Jeffers swallowed. "Then I ask you to keep an open mind. What I'm about to tell you will be a shock–I assure you."

"No." Sam shook his head slowly. "No, it won't–because I know who they are."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean approached the church with his gun drawn. Sure, it was a House of God–but so was Pastor Jim's church, which always had a fully stocked weapons locker in the basement. If the voice on the phone was telling the truth, Sam was somewhere inside; one way or another, he was going in after him, but he wasn't walking in blindly. He'd been instructed to use the side entrance. Dean studied the building; no–screw that. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder and chambering a bullet in his gun, he moved silently to the front of the church.

The hinges on the big oak main door groaned softly as he pushed it open and stepped cautiously over the threshold. No service was in progress and all the pews were empty. Dean cut to the right, choosing to go up the outside aisle rather than the center one. Keeping the wall at his back, he scanned the sanctuary, vestibule to choir loft to altar, as he moved forward.

He made it to the front of the church unchallenged. Doors flanked the big altar; Dean chose the one on the left, the entrance he'd been instructed to use located on that side of the building. Through the doorway there was a set of stairs leading up to the choir loft, and a long corridor; Dean moved silently down the hallway. He hesitated as he passed a large, wrought iron grate in the floor, muffled voices from somewhere below leaking up through the vent. OK; the basement was the first place to check out.

At the end of the hall he peered around the corner and froze; there was a man about ten feet away, his back to Dean. He was of average height and pacing in front of a short set of stairs that led down to an arched wooden door. When he turned, Dean saw that he wore a clerical collar–the minister who'd called him no doubt, now waiting for Dean to arrive.

Dean waited a few moments longer, surveilling the scene. When he saw no signs of anyone besides the minister, he stepped into the open. "I was beginning to think no one was home."

The minister whirled around, startled. His eyes grew wider still when he saw that Dean had a gun pointed at him. "You're Agent Osbourne's partner?"

"Bingo." Dean motioned with his gun. "Take me to him–now." The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he sensed movement behind him. He spun around, gun raised; there was a metallic clang and a burst of pain as a sword smashed into his hand, knocking the gun from his grasp. The weapon clattered to the floor and Dean froze, the sharp point of the broadsword now pressed just under his Adam's apple, a warm trickle of blood running down his neck onto his chest.

"Please…no violence. This is a House of God."

That plea was from the minister, somewhere behind him, but Dean's focus was locked on the man holding the sword. He was big–Sam big–but with a good ten years on his brother. His hair was buzzed, there were scars visible on his face, and he was dressed like he was ready for the next battle in Moondor–nothing fancy, just simple soldier's garb. And he knew how to use that sword; Dean's hand was cradled against his chest, fingers throbbing from being smashed by the weapon_–_but he still had them. If the man had meant to take his hand, Dean had no doubt it would be on the floor beside his gun.

Dean grimaced as he uncurled his injured fingers, then raised his hands in surrender. The grimace became a smile. "Didn't we face off against the Shadow Orks at the mid-year Jubilee?" He grunted as the point of the sword bit deeper into his skin. The man wielding the weapon never spoke, but motioned with his head for Dean to turn around and start walking.

Dean slowly turned his back on his captor, keeping his hands raised. "You're good…. Where the hell were you hiding, huh?"

The only answer was the point of the sword jabbed between his shoulder blades, urging him forward.

"Please–just come with me." The minister in front of him didn't look happy about what had just gone down. "He won't harm you–you have my word."

Dean slid a hand across his neck, then held up his bloody fingers. "I'm gonna hold you to that, padre."

Rev. Jeffers swallowed. "Your partner–he's this way." He turned quickly and walked down the hall.

Dean shot a look over his shoulder, then with a little more encouragement from the sword at his back, followed the minister.

Rev. Jeffers led them to the end of the hallway, then down a long flight of creaky stairs to the church basement. He pushed open a door, stepped inside, then glanced back at Dean before gesturing toward the far side of the room.

Following him in, Dean took note of two men dressed similarly to his captor, but his focus quickly turned to the pile of blankets against the far wall and the long form lying beneath them.

"Sammy?" He crossed the room, dropping to his knees at his brother's side and letting the duffel fall to the floor. Sam's eyes were closed, his skin flushed, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. Beneath the blankets, Sam's jacket and shirts were gone and there were bulky gauze bandages on the front and back of his left shoulder. "Hey…. You in there?"

There was no response.

"He was conscious for a while–quite lucid." There was no disguising the worry in Rev. Jeffers voice. "But he tired quickly. I thought rest would do him good."

"No, a hospital would do him good." Blood spatter at the crime scene has suggested a through-and-through injury; the bandages were consistent with that. Dean pressed his fingers to Sam's neck; his pulse was sluggish, blood loss the likely cause. Dean peeled off the front dressing to assess the extent of the damage and his stomach lurched. "What the hell did you butchers do to him?"

"It was one of your weapons that caused the damage." His captor finally spoke, his voice deep, his accent English. "Like the one I knocked from your hand."

"Bullshit. I know bullet wounds." Sam's skin was burned, pus leaking out from beneath the still-forming scab. "They don't do…this."

"Agent Osbourne–Sam–was losing a lot of blood when they brought him here." Rev. Jeffers was now standing behind Dean. "They…they cauterized the wound using one of their swords." He gestured to the old wood-fired furnace in the corner. "They heated it in there."

Dean glared at the minister in disbelief. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

"He would have bled out before you got here had we not." The smallest of the three men, just slightly shorter than Dean with tousled dark hair, stepped forward. "This gave him the best chance to survive."

"No, doctors would do that–you know, the guys in the white coats with the six-figure salaries. You assholes ever heard of 9-1-1?" After what they'd done to Sam and the confrontation in the hall, Dean was spoiling for a fight–swords or no swords. But Sam came first. He pressed his hand to his brother's forehead; Sam was already feverish, infection taking hold.

There was an open first aid kit on the floor beside Sam. Dean shoved it aside, a quick glance telling him the contents were for blisters and scraped knees, not gunshot wounds. He riffled through the duffel for their own kit; knowing Sam may have been shot, he'd stocked it with everything they had in the car that may be of use.

"A scum-sucking mugger gets one of the best trauma teams in the country…." Dean ripped the sterile packaging from a syringe, pulled off the cap with his teeth and jammed the needle into a bottle of antibiotics. "But Sam gets what? Some riff on fucking medieval torture?"

He was livid but his hands gentle as he jabbed the needle into his brother's shoulder, just below the wound. He then rolled Sam onto his side to pull off the bandage from the exit wound; it had also been cauterized. "Fuck. I can't stitch this up–not until the burns heal, 'til the infection's gone…." He thought for a minute then turned to the minister. "You got any sugar?"

"Sugar?"

"Yeah, sugar–the stuff you put in your coffee." Dean gestured to the wound. "I can use it to draw out the infection."

"Oh…yes. Yes, of course." Rev. Jeffers quickly crossed the room and vanished up the stairs.

Dean temporarily re-dressed the wound, then rolled Sam onto his back. When he did, a pair of glassy hazel eyes stared up at him.

"Dean…."

"Damn it, Sammy…." Dean shook his head. "You were at a museum–a freaking museum. Worst-case scenario should be a paper cut, not…this."

A weak snort was quickly followed by a pained grimace. "Ow…."

"Yeah–you're a mess. Here, these'll help." Dean tipped two pills from an amber container and opened a bottle of water before helping Sam sit up. He held on to Sam as he downed the painkillers, then lowered him back onto the pillow. "Let's keep moving to a minimum, OK? I've still got some cleanup to do." He shot a glare at their captors. "As soon as we get things…stabilized, we'll get you to a hospital."

"No." Sam weakly clutched at his brother's arm. "We stay. The men who brought me here–you know who they are?"

"Yeah–dead men walking." Dean rummaged through the duffel for supplies to clean Sam's wound. "They're still breathing only because keeping you alive tops making them dead."

Sam swallowed. "They tried to help."

"Help?" Dean gestured to the damage on Sam's shoulder. "You call _that_ help?"

"Dean…." Sam gave him the look Dean had been unable to refuse since the kid was, well, a kid.

"Son of a bitch…." Dean glared at the three men still in the room's shadows. "OK. Since for some reason it's important to Sam, who the hell are you?"

The dark-haired man walked up to Sam's bedside. "I'm Galahad."

"And I'm sorry." Dean's expression didn't change. "Bet you got your ass kicked a few times in high school over that handle."

"No…." Sam's hand still rested on Dean's arm, the heat of fever radiating through the touch. "He _is_…Galahad."

Dean looked down at Sam, his face morphing into his best WTF expression. "As in _the_ Galahad? Of the Round Table…King Arthur…Monty Python?"

Sam managed a pretty decent bitchface.

"Now I know you're delusional." Dean shot a glance at the two men behind Galahad. "The next thing you'll be telling me is Fric and Frac over there are King Arthur and Lancelot."

Galahad frowned. "No. My father and the king remain at court. This is Sir Percival the Younger of Ganis, and Sir Bors le Gros." He gestured first to the one man Dean had yet to meet, a tough-looking SOB with a boxer's build, and then to the man who'd waylaid Dean in the hall upstairs. Galahad shook his head. "It's still hard to believe you know of us in this time, but Sir Samuel seems well-versed in our quest."

"Sir Samuel?" Dean's snort faded as the reality of the situation hit home. He turned back to Sam. "You're serious? These are the freaking grail knights?"

Sam smiled, and nodded.

Dean turned and stared at Galahad. "For argument's sake, let's say I buy that. Next obvious question–what the fuck are you doing in 2013?"

A grunt of pain from Sam as he tried to move snapped Dean's attention back to his brother. "Dude, relax. Which part of _keep still_ is giving you trouble? Let the painkillers kick in." Anger overrode worry as again he took in the damage to Sam's shoulder. "And grail knights or not, I am still kicking their asses for what they did to you."

"Muggers did this." Sam's tired smile over Dean's protective streak morphed into a grimace as he glanced down at the wound. "The knights…they just MASHed the damage–fourth century style.

"MASH?" Dean shook his head. "I'll MASH them for–"

"Here…I hope it's enough." Rev. Jeffers burst back into the room, carrying a battered yellow canister, the remnants of the word SUGAR written on the side. Out of breath, he handed it to Dean. "I thought this might be useful, too." He held out a bottle of orange juice.

"Thanks." Dean took both, then popped off the canister lid, shooting a glare at the knights. "Pay attention while I MASH this twenty-first-century style–no sword maiming required." He grabbed a bottle of distilled water from the duffel and used it to flush the entry wound on Sam's shoulder of pus and debris. After patting it dry, he poured iodine onto a large square of gauze, sprinkled sugar over it, then flashed an apologetic smile at his brother. "This might sting a bit."

Sam snorted weakly. "Not compared to what they did."

"Touche." Dean pressed the gauze onto the wound, cringing at the grunt of pain it elicited from Sam, then taped it into place. Sam exhaled slowly, then nodded at Dean, who repeated the process for the exit wound. When finished, he slipped a sling around Sam's neck, and secured his arm inside it to stabilize the shoulder.

"Done." Dean smiled as he wiped his hands. "Hanging in there?"

Sam nodded, the pain lines across his face easing a little. "Pills are starting to work so…yeah."

"Good. We'll change the dressing every two hours–unless we can get you to a hospital instead." Dean picked up the bottle of juice. "Think you can keep this down?" When Sam nodded, Dean unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle to his brother. "Now, let's get back to the elephant in the room." He turned to the knights who were watching the brothers closely. "Who wants to start? Why the hell are you here? Not to mention, how?"

"I know it must sound…fantastical–especially to a man of science like yourself." Rev. Jeffers took off his glasses, wiped the sweat from his face, then settled his wire-rims back onto his nose. "As a man of God, I regularly ask my parishioners to have faith…to simply believe in what may seem impossible because it's God's will. But–and it pains me to admit this–had I not seen these men, these knights, arrive as they did, I'm not sure I would believe this myself."

Dean scowled at the minister. "Define _arrive_."

"It was right here in my church." The minister sank down into a creaky wooden chair. "I was preparing for Evensong when there was this deafening crackle, like lightning, and the sanctuary lit up with this red light. I turned and…." He gestured toward the knights. "The three of them stepped right out of the light, dressed as you see them, swords raised."

Dean pushed himself to his feet and walked over to Galahad. "So what was this red light?"

Galahad held his ground, his gaze locked on Dean, his hand reflexively moving to the hilt of his sword. "First, sir, it would be proper to introduce yourself."

"Proper?" Dean huffed in annoyance. "Fine. I'm Dean–of Winchester."

"Winchester? I know it well." Galahad nodded his head in acknowledgement, his hand relaxing at his side. "But I know not what this red light is, only that it led us here. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. We are on a quest to find the sangreal–the holy grail sent to Briton by the followers of Joseph of Arimithea. We-"

"Yeah, yeah, I've read the comic, I know the story." Dean's gaze traveled from Galahad to Percival and Bors. "But time travel? I don't remember that in the book."

Galahad hesitated. "We have searched Gaul, Samartia, the Holy Land. So far, the grail has eluded us. Three moons past, we returned home to discover that we are not the only ones who seek it. And these others will use any means necessary to ensure they find it first–including dark magic that allows them to travel through time."

"So that fucking Merlin decides we need to fight fire with fucking fire for the greater good. We should've known it would all go to shite." Percival raised an eyebrow at Dean's look of surprise. "What? Didn't think there were ladies present, that I had to watch what I said."

"We're still in a House of God, Percival." For a big man, Bors spoke softly.

"And ain't that just my luck." Percival rolled his eyes. "If we're forced to do this again, I'm gonna tell that pointy-headed wizard to drop us in an alehouse." He walked up to Galahad, a wide grin across his face. "I would've picked whorehouse but it's embarrassing to see a grown man blush." He winked at Dean. "Galahad here takes his vows of chastity seriously."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And you don't? I thought all knights did."

Percival guffawed. "Hell no, mate. I fight in the Lord's name, I say my prayers–but a good woman and a good beer, that's my earthly reward for a job well done."

Dean turned to Sam. "This guy–I'm starting to like. Jury's still out on the other two."

"So Merlin…." Sam was struggling to sit up. "He sent you here? But who–" His body not co-operating with his will, he collapsed back onto his pillow in frustration. "Fuck…."

Percival snorted. "A man after my own heart." He punched Dean in the shoulder. "He's a good warrior, that one. Was holding his own against the two who attacked him, at least until the weasel-faced one used that weapon. What the hell was it, anyway? The bugger used it on Percy, too–punched a hole right through his chain mail."

"It's called a gun, and without that chain mail, Percy would be in the same mess as Sam." Dean moved quickly back to Sam's side. He helped his brother sit up easily enough, but keeping him upright was another matter. There was just one pillow and the wall behind Sam was concrete and damp. Screw it; Dean sat down on the floor and used himself as a prop, leaning Sam against him and wrapping an arm around his back to keep him there. "Not a word," was his only response to Sam's surprised look. He turned back to Galahad. "OK, my head's spinning. I feel like I've been on a bender without any of the good parts. So let's back up. Merlin decided to send you through time because…."

"Because he believes that men who also seek the grail, men who would use it for evil, came before us. If the grail is indeed here, we must find it first." Galahad looked uncomfortable. "Or ensure they do not."

Dean stared at Galahad in disbelief. "Why–not to mention how–would the grail be hidden in another country, on another continent, fifteen hundred years in the future?"

"You ask valid questions, sir." Galahad began pacing again. "I do not pretend to understand the forces that brought us to this place…to this time. Only that as knights of the king's Round Table, we pledged to do all that is asked of us to find the grail, to search all corners of the earth so it may be returned to a place of honor and safety. When Merlin discovered that others had breached time to find it…he secured the means so that we could pass through the same door."

Sam frowned. "Part of the legend says the knights embarked on a great voyage to find the grail…that a holy man would direct them to a wasteland…. It kinda fits."

Dean snorted. "Wasteland? The St. Louis Chamber of Commerce would love that. But a voyage through time? Exactly how did Merlin _secure the means_ to do that?"

"A stranger to Camelot first visited Morgan, the king's sister, and passed along his magic to her." This was from Bors. Moving up to stand beside his fellow knights, he was easily the biggest of the three. "Merlin has spies everywhere. When he learned of their plans, he had the stranger brought to him. I know not what he promised him, or threatened him with, only that Chronos quickly handed over the same spell he'd given Morgan."

"Chronos? Son of a bitch." Dean shot a knowing look at Sam. "Guess that does explain the red lightning."

Bors frowned. "You know of this Chronos?"

"You might say that." Sam gulped down the last of the juice. "We killed him a couple of years back–after he tried to kill Dean."

"Of course, in your time he's still alive and stirring up shit like he always did." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Time travel makes my head hurt. But how did you end up here, in 2013?"

Bors folded his arms across his chest. "Do you know what scrying is?"

Sam nodded. "A type of magic used to locate a person or an object."

"Merlin tried scrying for the grail in our time, but to no avail. He believed it to be warded against such magical means. Then this Chronos…." Bors swallowed, like the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. "He suggested Merlin look not for where the grail is, but for where it will be–where it might not be so carefully guarded. Then he gave him the means to scry through time. The wizard tells us the answers lie here."

Dean frowned. "Why only the future? Why not travel back in time…go back to a place where you knew the grail was kept?"

Galahad shook his head. "We cannot risk changing what is, only what may yet come to pass."

Dean rubbed his temple, and shot a sideways glance at Sam. "I don't know what hurts my head more–trying to make sense of time travel or the way they talk."

Sam was fading; he was leaning a little more heavily on Dean, his hand holding the empty juice bottle trembling noticeably. Dean took the bottle from his brother, pretty sure Sam would have crashed by now if he wasn't geeking out over the details of case.

Seemingly reading his mind, Sam shot Dean an _I'm fine_ look, then turned to Galahad. "So have you found it…the grail?"

"What we've found so far is sweet bugger all." For emphasis, Percival jammed his knife into the workbench he leaned against.

"His words are not ones I would choose, but Percival is right. We have searched each night since we arrived but found nothing." Galahad smiled at Rev. Jeffers. "We were fortunate to land in a House of God, meet the good Father here who has offered us sanctuary and guidance to navigate this…strange world. It was he who suggested we search under the cover of night, keep our presence known to as few as possible."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, good job on keeping a low profile. Two severed arms in two days–that didn't raise any red flags at all."

"Oi." Percival jabbed his finger toward Dean. "Both those bastards were thieves. Where I come from, they lose their grubby mitts." He glanced over at Sam. "And while Sam here was handling things just fine until that…weapon was used, when he went down, we came to his aid."

"Hey." Dean shook his head. "I have no sympathy for those assholes–zero. It's just we don't use swords these days. So when you do, you get noticed–especially after the mess you made in Chicago and San Francisco. How'd you think we picked up on all this?"

Percival scowled. "What's a Chicago?"

Sam shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. "The city where the rapist was cut in half. The other is where the drug dealer was decapitated."

Galahad looked confused. "The two men who lost their arms–that was our doing, I freely admit that. But…." The color drained from his face as he shot a knowing look at Bors and Percival. Bors's knuckles whitened as his fingers curled into fists and Percival exploded, grabbing a tin can from a nearby shelf and hurling it across the room, the nuts and bolts inside spraying across the floor in a metallic shower.

"Mordred. Fuck, Merlin was right–he is here." Percival was pacing, looking like he'd rip off the head of the first person who came within reach.

"Mordred?" Sam tensed in Dean's hold. "He's the one after the grail?"

Dean fought to place the name. "CliffsNotes, Sammy–King Arthur's bastard?"

"Son of Morgan, Arthur's half-sister–and yeah, some say Arthur's son, too. He wanted the throne of Camelot for himself and mom was willing to do just about anything to help him get it."

Dean's eyebrow peaked. "Up to and including time travel, apparently."

"Most versions of Arthurian lore say Morgan's powers as a sorceress equaled or even exceeded Merlin's–mostly because she didn't mind playing on the dark side." Sam glanced up at Galahad. "Is that anywhere close to fact?"

Galahad nodded. "Close enough."

Dean scowled. "OK, assuming Morgan used the same time travel spell, is searching for the same thing–why didn't Mordred pop up in the padre's church right ahead of you three?"

Galahad was pacing now. "Merlin says the future is always in motion." He stopped in front of the brothers. "Do you hunt, Sir Dean?"

Dean snorted. "Probably not in the way you mean, but yeah–we hunt. And it's Dean–no _Sir_."

Galahad nodded. "Dean, then. Well, when you hunt with an arrow, you never aim directly at your prey, do you?"

"No." Dean's eyes narrowed. "You aim where your prey will be when the arrow gets there."

Galahad smiled. "Exactly. Merlin told us that traveling through the time portal was much the same, except we are the arrows. He opens the portal, but unless we step through at precisely the right moment, we miss the target–could be off by a full moon cycle, even years." He shook his head. "I've been hunting since I was a boy and can still miss if I misjudge the wind or a bird changes flight. This…this is so much easier to get wrong, and with far greater consequences."

Sam turned again to Dean, wincing at the pull on his injured shoulder but eyes bright as pieces of the puzzle clicked together. "That's why nothing lined up. Merlin gets hold of the spell, figures out where they need to go, but he's happy to…just hit the target–get the knights in the same neighborhood as the grail, then let them hunt for it. But Morgan, she's trying to give Mordred an edge, so she's aiming for the bull's-eye…wants to drop them right on top of the prize–but she keeps missing. She dropped them in Chicago, _after_ the exhibit left town…dropped them in San Francisco _after_ the schedule changed."

"So they keep going back and trying again?" Dean frowned at Galahad. "How many times have you done this?"

Galahad looked nauseous. "For us, once. That is enough. Traveling through time was never in God's plan. It is only to prevent a greater evil that we do this."

Dean looked skeptical. "Road to Hell, brother... But, OK, you have principles. What about Morgan?

"Not a bloody one." Percival shook his head. "That witch will do whatever it takes to get her bastard the crown." He shrugged at Galahad. "Merlin did say that returning to our own time was much easier. It's possible that they have made many journeys here."

Galahad nodded. "Indeed. Merlin says the future is always in motion, but the past is set in stone."

Sam smiled. "So to get home, you just pick a specific date, a specific place–it's a stationary target, much easier to hit."

Again, Galahad nodded. "And for us that target is the same moment we left so we disturb as little in our own future as possible."

"Good to know. But sooner or later, Morgan's gonna get it right and her little bastard is gonna show up here in St. Louis. So if we want to stop her from screwing up history," Dean pointed at Galahad, "which–spoiler alert–says _you_ find the damn cup, we need to find it first." He turned to Sam. "And I'd say that exhibit of yours is a good place to start."

"Exhibit?" Rev. Jeffers frowned as he bent down to pick up a newspaper from the floor. "You mean the one at the museum down the road? About King Arthur's Court?" He passed the paper to Dean. "There's a story in here about it. The quest for the grail is mentioned so I thought it might somehow be tied into this…seems too great a coincidence that the knights and the exhibit would show up in this city at the same time." He glanced over at Galahad. "The knights were actually on their way to the museum when they found Sam."

"And Sam was coming from a meeting with the curator." Dean dropped the paper on Sam's lap. "But if the freaking Holy Grail was part of some touring exhibit, don't you think it would get top billing? I mean, you spent an hour-plus with the museum's top gun. Call me crazy, but I'm thinking if he had one of the most important relics in human history under his roof, he might've led with that."

"If he knew he had it." Sam scowled as he glanced down at his bare chest. "Where's my jacket?"

"You cold?" Dean reached for his forehead, fearing Sam's temperature had spiked again.

"No." Sam batted away his hand. "I want the inventory list from the museum–it's in the pocket. Look, the grail has been hunted for centuries." He waved his hand at the knights. "Not just by them, but by treasure hunters, historians, religious scholars–"

"Nazis…Indiana Jones."

Sam shot his brother a look. "It's why Joseph of Arimathea appointed guardians, a job handed down from father to son over the generations. They got really good at hiding the grail because someone was always searching for it. What if the latest generation of guardians decided to hide it in plain sight?" He shrugged. "Put it in a museum, mixed in with a bunch of replicas–who'd think to look there, right?"

"Yeah." Dean glanced up at Galahad. "Merlin said the grail seemed to be warded against magic in your time, right? That's why he couldn't scry for it?"

The knight nodded.

Dean turned back to Sam. "What if the London museum is also warded? And wherever it was stashed before that? Then the guardian falls asleep on the job–"

"And the artifact is sent out with the traveling exhibit, sans guardian." Sam nodded, picking up Dean's line of thought. "Suddenly it's no longer protected…no longer invisible."

"And, bam, Merlin and Morgan both get a blip on witchcraft radar and send out their troops to hunt for it here, in 2013." Dean's eyes widened. "Holy crap."

Sam smiled. "Holy, yes–but crap?"

"Don't nitpick, Sammy–we just may get to see the freaking Holy Grail. " Dean returned his attention to the knights. "OK, you heard the man–where's the clothes he was wearing when you found him?"

"Here." Rev. Jeffers picked up a yellow plastic bag from near the bottom of the stairs and handed it to Dean. Dean pulled his arm from Sam's back, waited a moment to be sure his brother didn't topple over, then reached inside the bag. His stomach lurched as he pulled out the white shirt first, the front stiff and dark with Sam's dried blood. He grabbed the jacket next. "Left or right pocket?"

"Left."

Dean dug into the pocket and pulled out the sheaf of papers. Folded lengthwise, the outer pages was stained brown with dried blood. Dean's stomach did another somersault but the papers were mostly legible. After handing the list to Sam, he glanced at the faces around the room. "New plan–we divide and conquer." He turned first to his brother. "You're on the DL, Sammy. In or out? Your call."

"In." Sam cleared his throat. "Definitely in."

Dean nodded. "Fine, but you're working from the dugout."

"Dean–"

"No, and don't give me the dirty diaper look–your ass stays parked here 'til you get your strength back and both arms work. You, Galahad, and the reverend go through that list, identify anything that could possibly be the grail. Percival, Bors, and me, we head to the museum. FBI badges will get us access to the exhibit. Once you come up with a list of possibilities, text it to me. We'll hunt them down. If these two can't give me a definite yes or no, I'll snap a photo and send it to you so Galahad can weigh in."

Sam glanced down at the list. "Say we find it–then what? I hate to be mercenary about this, but we need a way to get it out of there without you and me ending up back on the FBI's Most Wanted list. I'm already on the museum's security tapes and you're about to be. Something of value goes missing, it's not a big leap to the feds sending out new posters with our mugs on 'em."

Dean scowled. "And no way in hell am I putting Baby in the corner again to stay off their radar."

Galahad glanced from one brother to the other. "If it is a matter of storming the fortress, you know you have our swords at your disposal. I only wish I had more of them to offer."

Dean shook his head. "It's not swords we need–it's a way to shut down museum security." He turned to Sam. "Think you can hack in?"

Sam glanced down at his sling. "It'll be tricky one-handed, but yeah." Now he was thinking out loud. "I'll take footage of the empty exhibit hall and create a loop, then feed that into the system to play while you're in there. You'll be invisible to anyone monitoring the cameras or playing back tapes. Then I just have to re-route cameras between you and the exit and you're golden."

Dean grinned. "That's my boy." He turned to Galahad. "That portal home–you can open it anywhere?"

"Yes." Galahad gestured toward a burlap sack on the workbench. "We need the items in there to conduct the spell, but the location matters not."

"Good." Dean nodded. "Then once we ID the grail, we leave the room, wave to the cameras and make like we're heading home. Galahad joins us, Sammy works his magic and we sneak back in. Once we have the grail, G opens the portal and the grail leaves the premises without ever leaving the premises. The knights go home, I slip out–case closed. It's Miller time."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You really think it'll go that smoothly? You do remember our last name, right?"

"Don't borrow trouble, Sammy. It'll hunt us down soon enough." Dean glanced down at his watch. "What time's the museum open until?"

Sam frowned. "Six, I think–but staff is usually there for a while after that."

"Then we're working against the clock." Dean took in the knights' clothes. "Padre, you got suits these two can wear so I can pass them off as FBI?" He pointed a finger at Percival. "And Percy, no swords."

Percival's growl of displeasure was audible to everyone. "I'm keeping my knife." He folded his arms stubbornly across his chest. "And if I have no sword, I want one of those…guns."

Dean snorted. "Fat chance. Now let's move."

Rev. Jeffers glanced from Percival to Bors. "I'm sure I can find something for Percival, but I doubt I have anything that would fit Bors."

"Get him my other suit." Sam ran a hand over his bare chest as he turned to Dean. "And while you're at it, get me some clothes, too–preferably blood-free."

Dean nodded. "Done, and done. Be right back."

Percival shook his head as he watched Dean leave. "Who crowned him when I wasn't looking?"

"That's…just Dean being Dean." Sam smiled. "You'll get used to it."

**xxxXXXxxx**

The alley was dark save for the meager spill from the lone streetlight at the far end. The wind picked up, knocking over trash cans and stirring up dust, as the street brightened with a wash of red light and the air filled with the buzz of electricity. A deafening crackle accompanied a fork of red lightning, and four men stepped out of nowhere into the empty street. Each was dressed similarly in dark cloth and leather under armor and chain mail, each holding a raised sword as if expecting a fight. Finding none, the swords were slowly lowered.

One man stepped away from the pack as he sheathed his sword. Tall, slender but muscular with longish dark hair falling over dark eyes, he scanned the street warily.

Seeing no one, Mordred removed a pouch from his belt and pulled a round, flat stone from inside it. Opaque white, it began to glow as he muttered an incantation. Mordred smiled. "It's here." His leather tunic creaked as he slipped the stone back into the pouch and motioned with his head for his men to follow him.

**To be continued**…

_**A/N**__: One of the things I discovered when doing research for this story is that there's no such thing as a canonical version of Arthurian legend. That made my job a lot easier. Much like SPN itself does, I could just cherrypick the best stuff from history and legend. __ I hope you enjoyed. If you have a moment, I'd love to hear from you. Enjoy tonight's Season 9 premiere! Next chapter will be posted Thursday._


	3. Chapter 3

**SUMMARY:** Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that has Sam teaming with someone he never thought he'd meet, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. _Casefic. Chapter 3 of 4._

**SPOILERS:** _Technically, the story is set within Season 9, post trial-related fallout, but is a standalone case-fic–no spoilers–and may become slightly AU depending on the fallout from the Season 9 premiere. Right now, though, it fits within canon._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen calls them. _

**WORD COUNT:**_ Chapter Three: 9K+ Complete story: 30K_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort_

**A/N:**_ This is the third of four chapters, and all chapters are complete. The final chapter will be posted Saturday. Many thanks and big hugs to my beta, Harrigan; my stories are always better with your help. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thanks also to Freya for the encouragement to get this done. And Suzee51: the scene you wanted the last time around that wasn't there? It shows up in this chapter. J On the whumpage front, I'll just say that neither brother escapes this fic unscathed. (Shocking I know, coming from me.) Enjoy! Written to fill the 'Job-related Injury' square in my _h/c Bingo card over on LJ.

**Stainless and Honorable Lives**

**Chapter 3**

Sam squinted at the computer screen, the strings of coding all blurring together. He pushed away the laptop and scrubbed a hand down his face.

"Perhaps you should rest." Galahad refilled a tin cup with water and offered it to Sam. "Your brother promised to–how did he put it–change history at my expense if I allowed you to overexert yourself."

Sam snorted. "That sounds like Dean." A pained grunt escaped as he leaned in to take the cup. "Thanks…. He told you we were brothers, huh?"

Galahad nodded. "Although it was no surprise. That you were brothers-in-arms was obvious from moment he arrived, but the kinship of blood was evident in the way he cared for you–and threatened us."

Sam smiled. "Old habit–he's been looking out for me a long time." He often bitched at Dean for being overprotective, but only rarely were the gripes heated; the instinct was just hard-wired in his brother. And when he'd come to in the church basement with Dean at his side, growling at the knights…well, he wasn't griping. Sam gulped down some water, set down the cup, then leaned back, letting his eyes slide shut.

Before Dean left with Percival and Bors, he had changed the dressing on Sam's injured shoulder, helped him into a zip-front hoodie and re-secured his sling. When Rev. Jeffers had fetched more blankets and pillows, Dean had stacked the pillows behind Sam to keep him upright and as comfortable as possible. Of course, he'd also instructed Galahad to use his sword and cut off Sam at the knees if he attempted to get out of bed for anything beyond trips to the bathroom. OK, _that_ had fueled a gripe or two.

Sam's computer was balanced on his lap, his phone and gun within easy reach of his good hand. In the hour or so since Dean had been gone, Sam had battled to hack into museum security, while Galahad and the reverend worked their way through the Arthurian exhibit inventory list, looking for anything that might resemble the grail. So far, they'd struck out on both fronts.

Museum security was gold standard, blocking Sam at every move. He'd ditched the sling about twenty minutes earlier, hoping two hands would make a difference. It hadn't. As for the list–no item had sparked even a flicker of recognition from Galahad. After Rev. Jeffers read out the description and provenance of each item, things like paintings and armor were quickly eliminated; anything worth investigating further, like a _court banquet_ _chalice_ or a _kitchen platter_, now appeared under yellow highlighter. Sam peeled open his eyes and picked up the list, slowly flipping through the marked pages; there was very little yellow in a sea of dark ink.

Rev. Jeffers had disappeared upstairs a few minutes earlier, muttering something about Sam needing to eat. Galahad remained seated on the floor beside Sam's makeshift bed, running a whetstone along the blade of a small but deadly-looking dagger.

Sam studied the man beside him; the knight wasn't quite what he'd pictured–far more soldier than saint. Like Dean, he was finely muscled–and, also like his brother, carried himself in a way that said he could handle himself in a fight. The scars across his hands, arms and face suggested there had been many.

Sam had read Malory's _Le Morte d'Arthur_ in high school English and studied the Vulgate Cycle in a Romantic Lit class at Stanford, but his strongest memories of the Grail story would always be shaped by the _Classics Illustrated_ comic that Dean had read to him when he was a kid. In his mind's eye, he could still see the panels depicting light streaming down over a praying Galahad as he embarked on the quest for the grail.

But what should be a happy memory, wasn't; it was one of the first times he'd realized he was…different. Even his five-year-old self knew he'd never be worthy of such a quest–and that was long before he knew about hunting, let alone demon blood and his dark destiny. Now fate in its most cruel form was taunting him, inconceivably dropping him in the midst of that very quest.

"You're staring, Sir Samuel." Galahad didn't look up, just continued sharpening the dagger. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were bewitched."

"Sorry." Sam cleared his throat. "And it's Sam…just Sam. Believe me–I'm no knight."

Galahad looked up. "From what I understand, you and your brother travel this land defending right, helping those in need. And even though we met but a short time ago, you have each pledged to help us in our quest, guide us through this strange land and for no discernable personal gain. These are all facets of a true knight." He set down the whetstone and ran his thumb lightly along the edge of the blade. "That, and like Bors, you fight fiercely and are almost the size of my horse…." His head down, a grin was just visible beneath the mop of unruly, dark hair. "Both welcome qualities in any knight at my side on a battlefield."

Sam stared at Galahad. "How do you do it?"

Galahad lifted his head. "Do what?"

"Stay true…. Live the 'stainless and honorable life' your pledge as a knight demands when there's so much…so much evil out there." Sam picked at a broken thread on the blanket, all the loss, all the mistakes, all the twisted good intentions that had literally taken him to Hell spinning through his head. "You think you're doing something good, something right…and then…then it all gets twisted. And even if some kind of miracle happens and you claw your way free, get a chance to start over, there's still this…this stain on your soul you can't ever wash away." His eyes were glassy as he looked up at Galahad. "How do you…stay clean?"

Galahad set down the dagger. "You know much about my life, Sam–disconcertingly so–but over the centuries it seems a few pages have been lost from the books that tell the tales. I'm not clean–no man who lives a soldier's life, who fights at the whim of kings, can be. I have blood on my hands, have succumbed to rage…to temptation…doubt."

"But…." Sam shook his head; this didn't make sense. "You were the one chosen for the grail quest…you survived the Siege Perilous."

"Ah, the Siege Perilous." Galahad smiled. "The cursed chair of the Round Table…fatal to all who sit in it except he who is pure of heart, pure of soul–and it is he who is destined to find the grail." He snorted softly. "I'm sure Merlin would be delighted to know his trickery has become legend."

Sam's confusion deepened. "Trickery?"

"The chair is a ruse, Sam–a test." Galahad stroked a hand over his closely cropped beard. "The story is repeated to all prospective knights, who are then asked to sit in the chair to prove their worth. Their reaction, not the chair itself, tells the king everything he needs to know. If a man refuses and won't divulge why, Arthur turns him away–he's hiding something. But if a man is honest and confesses his sins, the reasons he can't sit in it, then the king can judge if those sins are forgivable."

Sam frowned. "So you–you confessed?"

"Who amongst us is not without sin?" Galahad's smile returned. "I asked that God judge me directly. I knelt in front of the chair and prayed–asked him to cleanse me of my sins, and that if any were too great to forgive, that he strike me down there and then. And then I sat in the chair."

A smile flickered across Sam's face. "And that's how you were chosen for the grail quest."

Galahad shrugged. "I am no more virtuous than my fellow knights–perhaps just more willing than some to admit my mistakes, my weaknesses–of which there are many." He picked up his dagger and slid it into the sheath on his belt, then dropped the whetstone into a pouch hanging beside it. "Bors also sat in the chair, you know." He chuckled. "As did Percival–and didn't that shock the gentlefolk of Camelot. You may have noticed, his manners are…less than courtly."

Sam grinned. "I like him. He reminds me of my brother–and people always underestimate Dean, too. He's the best man I know, and the last one to realize it."

"It appears you and your brother have much in common." Galahad sat back. "But like you say, it's often easier to see the good in others than in ourselves."

Rev. Jeffers returned at that moment, breathlessly entering carrying two plastic shopping bags. "If my dear wife, God rest her soul, was still with us, you'd be eating off plates and drinking from cups with saucers." He dumped the bags on the workbench, reached into the first and pulled out two foil-wrapped sandwiches. "I'm at a bit of a loss in the kitchen, I'm afraid–this is the best I could come up with." He tossed them to Galahad, who handed one to Sam.

"Thanks." Sam dropped the sandwich into his lap and began unwrapping it one-handed. "For the food, and your help."

"We are also in your debt, good father." Galahad, at first perplexed by the foil wrapping, followed Sam's lead, his furrowed brow relaxing when he caught sight of the food inside. "Ah, Percival will be sorry to have missed this. The man's appetite–for all things–is legendary."

Sam smiled around a mouthful of tuna, mayo, and tomato. "Another thing he and Dean have in common."

"Don't worry–I made enough for everyone. Galahad can take the extras with him when he rejoins the others." Rev. Jeffers set down the second bag between the two younger men. "There's fruit and bottles of water in there. Help yourself. We must all take a moment to refuel, to help us think more clearly." Out of breath, he sank again into the wooden chair. "Until you boys arrived, I'd forgotten how many stairs this old place has. Any progress to report?"

"No. Museum security is still a bitch–I mean, a problem." Sam shot an apologetic glance at the reverend. "And we finished going through the list but nothing jumped out. I've sent Dean the inventory numbers of everything we've identified as a possibility but…." He glanced down at the pile of papers. "It would really help if we knew what the hell we were looking for. I mean, bowl, cup, serving platter–which is it? Historians can't agree, so how are we supposed to know?"

Rev. Jeffers smiled. "It's hard for people, especially the devout, to believe that something so important, so significant to their faith could be something…ordinary. It's why DaVinci painted the Last Supper as a grand banquet…why Hollywood depicts the grail as a golden chalice. They need important events and objects to look important. But on earth, Jesus was a fisherman, the son of a carpenter–a simple man. The grail was likely made of wood or clay…something you wouldn't look twice at if you didn't know what it was."

"Something you wouldn't look twice at–which is why it's so damn hard to find." Sam took another bite of his sandwich as he stared at the list. "You ever study Arthurian history, Reverend?"

"A long…long time ago." Rev. Jeffers glanced over at Galahad. "For obvious reasons, the grail was of great interest to all of us at the seminary. The biggest problem, as I recall, is that most of what we know of Arthur and his court…of the quest…was not recorded by historians, but poets and storytellers."

"Who never let facts get in the way of good tale. So even with a 1,500-year head start, we know little more than Galahad." Sam shook his head, then turned to the knight. "Those stories say you had a vision of the grail, but then you would have seen it…seen what it looks like. I'm guessing that was more fiction?"

"A vision?" Galahad smiled. "I take it this was written by the same storyteller who wrote of the Siege Perilous?" He shook his head. "There was no vision. Merlin said only that as knights worthy of the quest, we would know where to look, would recognize what we sought when we found it." Galahad's smile returned. "As I recall, Percival's retort to that was…colorful. He greatly dislikes riddles. But then, they wouldn't call it a quest if it was easy, would they? More like…an errand."

"Touché." According to legend, Galahad would eventually find the grail, although he and Percival would die shortly afterwards, only Bors surviving to return to Camelot. But so much of the lore was wrong–the Siege Perilous, the visions, Percival's behaviour–what if that part of the legend was wrong, too? "Look, I hate to be the one to say it, but…wood rots, clay shatters or crumbles…. If that's what the grail is made of, there's a good chance the real thing doesn't exist any more."

"Then what led us here? Brought together my knights with the brothers of Winchester to continue this quest in another time?" Galahad shook his head. "No. I choose to believe it's out there." He smiled. "A wise king once said there is no worse death than the death of hope. If I find the grail, we will celebrate. But as long as I search, hope lives. That is most important."

Sam smiled at a sudden memory, of a nine-year-old Dean dissing the comic-book Galahad–something about Batman being able to kick his pansy-ass blindfolded. Now that they'd met the real thing, he'd make a point to ask Dean whether that childhood assessment still stood. Something told him it wouldn't. He cleared his throat. "Well, like you said, something led you through time to St. Louis…something that suggests the grail, or at least something connected to it, is here. Let's figure out what the hell it is."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean waited for a group of school children to pass in front of him, winked at the frazzled–and hot–teacher shepherding them, then crossed the museum lobby to where Percival and Bors were waiting.

Both now dressed in borrowed suits–Percival in a somewhat dated one belonging to Rev. Jeffers and Bors in Sam's–the knights blended easily with the modern-day crowd. Still, they looked anything but at ease as museum visitors milled around them. The place was packed, mostly with students visiting on class trips, their laughter and chatter blending with the occasional 'Shush!' from a chaperone.

Percival, leaning against a pillar, arms folded across his chest as he watched a group of high schoolers shove and push each other on their way into an exhibit hall, huffed impatiently as Dean approached. "You took your bloody time." He jerked his head toward the kids. "Romans fed Christians to the lions, and they're more civilized than this lot."

"Them?" Dean raised an eyebrow as he watched the kids. "Remind me not to take you to two dollar Tuesdays at the strip club."

Bors pulled a face while sliding his fingers under the knot of his tie. "Your customs are strange, your dress even stranger. Where I come from, we put nooses only around those we intend to hang."

"Do all knights whine this much? Just do this…." Dean loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. "See…easy. And hey, I'm no fan of suits, but that's rich coming from a guy whose worn a tin can most of his adult life."

Bors's scowl deepened as he fumbled with the button. "Are we done with this fortress, or is there something here that may in fact help in our quest?"

"Thought you'd never–" Dean froze when he saw an armored knight working his way through the crowd toward them. His hand reflexively moved toward his gun, relaxing only when he realized that the 'knight' was joking with a group of kids while handing out what appeared to be flyers promoting the upcoming Camelot exhibit.

"Why is he permitted to wear full armor and yet we are not?" Percival hissed in his ear.

"Dude, it's a costume–he's just…an actor, trying to drum up business for this place." With a quick scan of the lobby, Dean saw at least two other men in costume doing the same thing, along with a woman dressed as Guinevere. "Come on–we've got our own business to take care of." He began walking toward a corridor at the back of the lobby. "That curator sure as hell likes to talk but, bottom line–we've now got access to the exhibit. The man's trying to sell tickets, and he's a little paranoid that the nutjob running around St. Louis with a sword will kill his box office along with innocent civilians. Let's just say he's more than happy to help the FBI sweep away his little marketing problem." He snorted. "And, hey, if we save lives in the process–bonus."

Percival frowned at Dean, then turned to Bors. "You got _any_ idea what the fuck he just said?"

"No." Bors wore a similarly confused expression. "He speaks a very strange dialect of English."

Now it was Dean's turn to scowl. "It's called American, asshat." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "But, whatever–I'll keep it simple. While you were waiting for me, you see any sign of Mordred?"

Bors shook his head. "But if the grail is indeed within these walls, he will not be far. His dark magic will lead him here."

Percival glanced over his shoulder as they walked. "He's close. I…sense his evil–and he will be armed. He will allow no one to take his sword–nor get between him and his prize."

"Well, that's just…awesome." Dean's stomach lurched at the thought of Mordred forcing his way into a museum full of kids. He stopped in his tracks beside a red fire alarm on the wall. "OK, you see Mordred before this place closes, you do this." He slammed his elbow into the alarm, breaking the glass pin. "Then you pull this bar. An alarm goes off, and everybody in the building heads for the exits–gets the hell out of harm's way."

Percival stared at the fire alarm. "No alarm call will scare off Mordred."

"No." Dean resumed walking toward the exhibit hall. "But it'll clear the battlefield of innocent bystanders, and then it's just us versus him." He snorted. "And a big chunk of the St. Louis fire department, but one problem at a time."

Now Bors glanced over his shoulder, but the hallway behind them remained empty. "Mordred's soul is twisted, but he is a clever man. He knows neither this land nor its customs, so he will choose the path of least resistance."

"And you think _I_ talk funny?" Dean shook his head. "But if what you just said means he'll likely sneak in after closing, that's good news. One, it gives us more time to search and two, all those kids will be long gone, safe and sound. Damn, I hope you're right."

Dean yanked open the door to the exhibit hall, and stepped inside. It was a bit like stepping back in time, sans red lightning and gut-twisting nausea. The massive space had been transformed into a castle's great hall. Throughout the room, freestanding pieces of faux-stone wall had been erected in varying heights to serve as backdrops to each themed display; paintings and tapestries hung on the walls while glass display cases held everything from jewelry to ceremonial goblets. Full suits of armor stood atop tall pillars, while banners hanging from the coffered ceiling displayed the heraldry of each of Arthur's knights. A smaller room at one end of the hall held the _armory_, showcasing a host of weapons, while a similar-sized room at the opposite end was staged as if ready for a court banquet. The centerpiece of the exhibit was a full-sized replica of the Round Table; it sat atop a raised platform surrounded by 24 chairs, and above it hung a giant piece of stained glass depicting King Arthur and his knights.

It was the stained glass that first caught the attention of Bors and Percival. Bors frowned as he stared up at the artwork. "Is that supposed to be us?"

"I believe so." Percival was also studying their likenesses. "Although Merlin looks like he sat on the pointed end of his hat."

"If you're done being art critics, we've got a grail to find." Dean kept his voice low; there were at least three museum staff members in the hall still working to set things up. "Let's start our search in the banquet hall, as far from them as possible." He began walking toward the far end as he fished his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam's number.

_"Hey."_

"We're in. How goes the hacking?"

_"It doesn't. The system's slick, fighting everything I try. But I've tapped into traffic cams around the museum. That at least gives me an eagle eye on each entrance_–_if anyone in armor shows up, I'll see him and can sound the alarm."_

"Good." Dean frowned; his brother sounded tired. "How you doing?"

_"Frustrated. Hacking issues aside, we're about halfway through our second pass on the inventory list, but nothing's jumping out at us_–_any of us."_

"I meant, how're you holding up?"

Sam sighed. _"I should be there not here. Hacking from the inside would be a helluva lot easier, as would seeing actual artifacts instead of pages full of names and numbers."_

"Yeah, well for a dude with a bullet hole in his shoulder, you're right where you should be." Dean frowned at the knights who were staring curiously into one of the display cases. "Hey," he stage whispered to get Percival's attention as he was about to touch the glass. "Look–don't touch, at least not 'til we shut down the alarms."

Percival scowled but lowered his hand.

Dean returned the phone to his mouth. "Look, I hate to put pressure on, Sammy, but we need to wrap this up, pronto. This place is fucking full of kids. Mordred shows up and gets pissy, it could be a bloodbath. If he wanders in through the lobby, no way could I get off a clean shot in there."

_"You can't kill him, Dean."_

Dean snorted, his hand sliding to his gun, nestled comfortingly in the small of his back. "Mordred threatens even one of those kids, there's no _can't_ about it. It's done."

_"Trust me, I'm with you on that, but…we can't change the past." Sam lowered his voice, likely trying to keep Galahad from hearing. "Mordred dies at the Battle of Camlann after fatally wounding Arthur. You kill him here, everything changes. Butterfly effect."_

Dean's scowl deepened. "One, no Kutcher references–ever. Two, that's legend, Sammy–not history."

_"I know…trust me–after talking with Galahad, legend seems to get more wrong than it gets right. But you really wanna risk changing 1,500 years of history_?"

"If it saves one kid, hell yeah." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face; Sam was right of course, but it didn't make wrestling with the decision any easier. "Son of a bitch…. Look, whatever goes down hangs on Mordred. He behaves, he lives to die in another time. But the minute he draws his sword, all bets are off. None of those kids becomes collateral damage on my watch."

"_Fair enough_. _I'll call when I'm in the system."_

"Good–and don't be a hero, Sammy. You need help, you ask." Dean hung up, called up the inventory list Sam had sent earlier and rejoined the knights. "Until Sam turns off the alarms…." He cast a glance at the museum employees still working at the far end of the room. "And they get out of our way, it's still look, but don't touch, but let's see if we can whittle down this list."

About an hour into the search Dean's phone rang. "Sammy?"

"_Any luck?"_

"Yeah–all bad. We're about three-quarters through the list of possibilities you sent, and Percy and Bors have given a thumbs down to everything. You?"

_"The good news_–_unless Mordred is disguised as a 12-year-old riding a school bus, there's no sign of him. The bad news…." _Sam hesitated_. "I need help. I can't remote access the security system without leaving a trail a blind man could follow. The only way in undetected_–_"_

"Is from the inside. Lucky for us, that's where I am." Dean glanced up at a security camera on the wall. "Frank Devereaux taught me a few tricks I haven't had a chance to try out yet–I should be able to open a back door."

"_Good. We've done as much as we can here, so Galahad's all set to head out. Where should he meet you?"_

"In the lobby–and he can come right in the front doors wearing his own stuff. They've got actors walking around in fake armor as some kind of promotion for the new exhibit–he'll blend right in. Anyone talks to him, tell him just to act…knightly. They'll think he's on the payroll."

_"Roger that."_

Dean's jaw muscle twitched. "And Sam."

_"Yeah?"_

"Just so we're clear, Galahad comes solo. Your ass stays parked right where it is. Once I access security, you can Big Brother us from there."

Sam's voice was quiet. "_I can help with the search, Dean. I–"_

"No." Dean lowered his voice as a couple of museum employees moved with hearing range. "Look, a few hours ago you could barely sit up without help. You really think you can Usain Bolt out of here if that's what it comes down to, never mind take on Mordred?"

There was a lengthy pause. "_Call me when you've accessed the computer._"

Dean scowled at the phone as he hung up and turned to fill in Percival and Bors. Sam had caved too easily after being told to stay put–way too easily. And that meant only one thing. "Damn it…. See you soon, Sammy.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"It's a good setup." Dean stood behind the security guard who was seated in front of a bank of monitors that displayed live feeds from around the museum.

"We need it–especially on a day like today." Ralph, the guard, gulped down some coffee then shook his head. "School visits are the worst. Kids get lost, open alarmed exits, touch alarmed display cases…." He pulled open a desk drawer and took out an oversized bottle of Aspirin. "I go through these by the handful."

Dean was in fact-finding mode. "You've got sixteen monitors but I'm guessing way more than sixteen cameras throughout the museum. So, what? Each monitor shows images from multiple locations?"

Ralph nodded. "Each monitor accepts a feed from up to ten cameras, with the images cycling through."

Good–that meant blind spots; and blind spots gave them a chance to tap into the system unnoticed and insert looped footage of the empty exhibit hall. Dean watched as images from the Arthurian exhibit hall appeared on the monitors. Museum employees could be seen adding finishing touches to one of the displays; behind them, Percival and Bors strolled between the display cases, still studying the contents. With a brief flicker, the image changed to one of another exhibit hall. Dean glanced at his watch when the images changed again; each one stayed on screen for about 30 seconds. Based on that, they had a four and a half minute window to get the loop up and running–tight, but doable.

"Is there a problem, agent?" Ralph was staring at him curiously, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.

"No…no problem." Dean gestured to the monitors. "The images cycle through, but each camera must be constantly recording, right?"

Ralph smiled. "Absolutely. If a kid gets lost in, say, the Egyptology wing…." He punched a few buttons. "Then we can re-route all those cameras to the monitors and get either live feed or simultaneous playback on each screen. Voila–blanket coverage."

"That's good." Dean forced a smile; for their purposes, it was anything but. They'd have to wipe the exhibit hall tapes, too.

"Listen…." Ralph tossed back three Aspirin and downed them with another gulp of coffee. "We do a full building sweep just after closing time–you know, make sure there are no stragglers, no one's left anything behind–and I'd really like to hit the head first. Normally, I'd call up one the guys from downstairs to keep an eye out, but if you could just–"

"Watch the monitors?" Dean's smile suddenly became genuine; the extra-large coffee he'd brought for the guard had had the desired effect. "Of course. I'm more than happy to help out a brother in law enforcement."

"Thanks, man." Ralph pushed back his chair. "I'll be five minutes…ten, tops. Men's room is three doors down on the left. If an alarm goes off, just come hammer on the door."

"Will do." Dean clapped him on the shoulder collegially as the guard walked past. "Take your time."

His smile disappeared the moment Ralph left the room. Dropping into the guard's chair, he pulled a jump drive from his inside jacket pocket and quickly connected it to the museum's system. He needed almost all the tricks Frank had taught him to get the access he needed, but he did it with seconds to spare. He'd barely gotten the drive back in his pocket before Ralph returned to the room.

"Much better." The guard grinned at Dean. "If you're staying downtown, drop into Dancy's Bar tonight–I owe you a draft."

"Thanks. I'd love to but–" An image on one of the monitors caught Dean's eye. Galahad, wearing full armour and with one of the brothers' large duffels slung over his shoulder, had just pulled open one of the glass entrance doors to the lobby. But Dean's focus was on the much bigger knight right behind him: Sam–all decked out in Bors' armor. "I knew it, you sneaky son of a bitch." Sam quickly scanned the lobby; spotting a pile of flyers in a rack near the door, he grabbed them, then began handing them out to passing students as he and Galahad worked their way across the room. They disappeared from view when an image from the next camera in rotation filled the screen.

"'Scuze me?" Ralph scanned the monitors, trying to pick up on what Dean was staring at. "What've you seen?"

Dean's phone buzzed at that moment with a text message from his brother: _G. now at museum. Meet him by the fountain._

"Meet _him_, huh?" Dean dropped the phone back in his pocket. "Dude, you are dead meat."

"Agent?"

The look on the security guard's face told Dean he'd made that threat out loud. "Sorry, it's just the, um, field office changing things up on me. I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that beer. Thanks again."

He was out of the room and hurrying down the hall before Ralph had a chance to reply. "Damn it, Sam–next time, I'm handcuffing you to the fucking drainpipe." Dean stepped into the elevator that would take him to the lobby, slammed his fist against the _Close Door_ button and exhaled loudly. He knew how hard it was to be benched, especially on a case like this. And, yeah, Sam was a grown man; the call to suit up or sit out was his. But after a lifetime of looking out for his brother, that off switch had rusted out long ago.

The elevator doors opened and Dean strode into the lobby. It was near closing time and the place was even more packed than it had been earlier as student groups wrapped up their tours and headed for the school buses now parked around the circular driveway out front. Working his way through the crowd toward the fountain, it wasn't hard to pick out Sam or the knight.

Galahad was in almost full battle dress, an armored breastplate and articulated pauldrons, or shoulder armor, added to the chain mail hood he'd worn back at the church, and a full-length dark cloak hanging down his back from beneath the pauldrons. The missing gauntlets, helmet, and leg armor were likely in the duffel at his feet.

Dressed almost identically, only the style of the armor differing, Sam looked massive, the pauldrons emphasizing the width of his shoulders, the cape and long, leather tunic his height. Hell, he could have walked right out of the pages of the history books–even that damn long hair fit the image perfectly.

The giggling teenage girls surrounding the two men were obviously impressed. Each was taking turns posing between the two _knights_ as friends used their phones to snap photos; Sam wore an uncomfortable smile while Galahad just look confused by all the attention.

As Dean approached, a teacher rounded up the students and guided them toward a waiting bus. Sam's smile faded as he waved goodbye. He exhaled in relief–but that relief also faded when he caught sight of his brother, and the pissed-off expression on his face.

"Sammy." Dean forced a smile. "What a surprise–not. And nice duds–your fan club was certainly impressed."

"Look…." Sam at least had the decency to look guilty. He gestured to the duffel at Galahad's feet. "There was no way in hell Galahad was getting all their armor over here in that. This was just…the best way to get it here."

Dean summoned his most incredulous look. "That's what you're going with? The armor wouldn't fit in the bag?"

"Dean–"

"No…. Don't _Dean_ me." Dean kept his voice low because kids were still filing past them toward the buses, but worry made him pissed; he'd seen ghosts with more color than his brother had now. "You look like you're about to fall over–that'll be real useful in a fight."

Sam's jaw set with all-too-familiar stubbornness. "It's not a fight, it's a treasure hunt."

"Tell that to Mordred when he shows up."

Sam exhaled audibly. "In or out–my call. Your words, Dean. I chose in–all the way. So, here I am. You wanna kick my ass later, go right ahead–but I can work a laptop here just as well as back at the church, _and_ help search the exhibit." He gestured to the armor. "Besides, thanks to this…cosplay, I've got new intel. One of the docents came over when she saw us, told us not to forget about the staff meeting. Turns out it's for everyone working tomorrow night's gala, and attendance is mandatory. After 7 p.m., besides security, gala staff will be the only ones in the building, and they'll all be up on the fourth floor until at least eight-thirty."

"Which gives us 90 minutes undisturbed in the exhibit hall. That's good." Dean nodded, then the stubborn set of his jaw echoed his brother's. "Doesn't get you a free pass, though. Once you're healthy, I am still gonna kick your ass."

"Duly noted." Sam grinned. "But once I'm healthy, I just might kick back."

"Bring it." Dean cast a glance at a security camera. "Now, let's go play a little three-card monty with the security system so we can stick around after closing."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Beckett Nash waved goodbye to the last busload of students, his practiced smile disappearing the moment he turned his back to the yellow school bus.

The posting on the drama department's job site had made it seem like easy money; dress up as a Knight of the Round Table and entertain students and patrons to promote the upcoming exhibit. It had been anything but easy; the kids had never shut up and all they cared about was his sword. He'd almost strangled the 99th kid who'd asked him if he was Loki from _The Avengers_. This was the last time he took a job that didn't involve an orchestra pit or a camera between him and the audience. He checked his watch; at least he had time for a beer and a cigarette before the staff meeting started upstairs.

"You!"

Beckett turned in the direction of the shout. Four tall men, also dressed as knights, their gloved hands resting on the hilts of oversized swords, were striding toward him. Their costumes were impressive, far more so than the one he'd cobbled together with leftovers from the university's production of Camelot five years earlier. "Well, your costume department obviously has deeper pockets than mine. Which school are you from?"

The dark-haired man leading the group had an intense stare, his dark eyes seemingly boring holes right into Beckett's skull. "Where is it? Take us to it."

Awesome. Method actors. Beckett rolled his eyes as he turned toward the museum entrance. Idiot method actors who didn't even know where the meeting would take place. "Follow me."

Now the museum was officially closed, staff were locking each of the glass doors to the main entrance. Becket sighed dramatically as he yanked open the one door not yet locked. "You know, you really should have used the staff entrance but, lucky for you, you met me." He motioned for the actors to hurry up. "A few more minutes and you'd have been locked out. You might never have gotten inside."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Bors and Percival were almost back in their armor, and the brothers now wearing the jeans and shirts that Sam had thrown into the duffel. Galahad, the only one who didn't need to change clothes, was already moving through the exhibit, studying each item, in search of the grail.

Dean slipped his gun into the waistband of his jeans and dropped his plaid shirt over it before gathering up the discarded FBI suits and stuffing them inside the duffel. As he did so, he glanced up at his brother. Sam had needed help getting out of Bors's armor, the chain mail and metal too heavy to pull off one-handed, at least without doing further damage to his shoulder. Galahad had helped take off the armor, proving to Dean he'd also helped get him into it, with Dean taking over after that. Sam said nothing the whole time Dean helped him dress, but the tense way he held himself, the color bleeding from his face, and the sheen of sweat said more than enough. So did the fact he didn't refuse when Dean silently handed him another dose of painkillers. The sling had been left back at the church, "It didn't go with the armor," all Sam would say when asked where it was.

Now, as Dean finished changing, Sam sat at the Round Table, the laptop in front of him as he monitored the security cameras. Between the two of them, they'd successfully hacked into the system; the looped footage of the empty hall was now playing, making them invisible to security. A four-way split-screen on the laptop displayed live views from the cameras outside the exhibit hall, giving them a heads-up on anyone approaching the doors. With a simple tap of the touchpad, they could also cycle through every camera in the building, tracking the movements of security guards or staff. The hall doors were also locked from the inside as a last line of defense.

Dean walked up to Sam. "How you holding up?"

"I'm fine." Sam didn't look up; his focus stayed on the screen as he rhythmically tapped the touchpad.

Dean knew the tone and the stubborn set of the jaw all too well. Sam was on autopilot; he was hurting, but he'd keep going until he couldn't. "OK, tough guy, how 'bout you let me take over."

"Dean–"

"Don't get your panties in a twist. All I'm saying is I'll keep an eye out for Mordred. You do what you came here to do–poke through the exhibit. Just don't drop anything–you break it, you bought it."

"I'll laugh later." Sam glanced around the hall. "You go through everything earlier?"

"Everything that was set up then." Dean gestured behind him. "They were still working in that corner down by the armory when I went up to security, so there's stuff there we didn't see."

"Then I start there." Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. His eyebrow peaked as Dean dropped into the chair beside him and pulled over the laptop. "Um, you do know you're sitting in the Siege Perilous, right?"

"The what where?"

"The chair–it's the Siege Perilous. It was a test King Arthur used for his knights. According to legend, anyone who sits in it who isn't pure of soul, drops dead on the spot."

Dean glanced down at the chair, then looked up with a grin. "I'm still breathing–pure as the driven snow, that's me."

Sam rolled his eyes, then set off to search the far corner of the museum.

Percival appeared suddenly at Dean's side, dropping something on the table. "These are not ours. I know not what they are."

Dean glanced at them, his face brightening with recognition; they were foil-wrapped sandwiches. "It's food–look." He peeled open the foil, pulled out a half and took a big bite before turning back to the computer. "Try it–it's good."

Galahad returned to the table as Percival tore into the foil. "The good father sent those. They have a strange name–sand warlocks, I believe."

"No." Dean kept his focus on the computer but shook his head. "Wiches–not warlocks. Sand_wiches_."

Percival took a massive bite. Mouth still full of food, his grin widened. "I don't care what you call them, but there's a special place in Heaven for the good father. I am fucking starving."

Dean glanced up at Galahad. "You see anything that floats your boat?"

Galahad frowned. "I saw no boat, nor anything to float it–but also nothing that might be the grail. It is discouraging. Why would magic lead us here, if there is nothing to be found?"

Dean shrugged. "When you stepped through the portal, either you got off on the wrong floor, or we're missing something." He glanced down at his watch. "Either way we're on a deadline. Sam says gala staff gets a tour of the exhibit at the end of their meeting. We need to be long gone by the time they show up."

"Then I shall continue searching." Galahad shook his head as he stared at the computer screen. "This is a frightening magic you and your brother practice. This one small…mirror allows you to see into every room of this fortress."

Now it was Dean's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You Marty McFly through time, travel fifteen-hundred years into the future, and Sammy's laptop freaks you out?"

"Buggar me." Percival's curse was uttered around a mouthful of sandwich.

Dean's attention snapped back to the laptop. A body, wearing a knight's armor, lay sprawled in a growing pool of blood in a stairwell. The eyes, wide open and staring blankly, showed the man was beyond any help. "Fuck. Not one of Mordred's men, I'm guessing?"

All three knights shook their heads, then Galahad frowned. "I believe Sam called him an actor. He was outside earlier with the children, although he did not seem pleased to be there."

"Well, trust me–he's a helluva lot less pleased now." Dean quickly disconnected the stairwell camera from the main grid, then began cycling through the museum's cameras, looking for any sign the body had already been discovered and, more importantly, the killers.

"Mordred did this." The growl was back in Percival's voice as he stated what they were all thinking.

"Yeah." Dean was rapidly tapping the touch pad. "We just need to know where the hell he is."

The cameras in the fourth floor meeting room showed the gala staff still engaged in their meeting, the smiles and laughter saying they were oblivious to the drama playing out a few floors below.

Dean kept cycling through the cameras until he hit the ones covering the lobby; there his hand froze. Four knights appeared out of a stairwell and crossed in front of the fountain, heading for the corridor that led to the Arthurian exhibit. "Looks like they got directions from that kid before they killed him. They're not searching–they're headed straight this way." His fingers flew over the keys, selectively shutting down cameras to keep Mordred's progress hidden from security guards.

He jumped at the sound of swords being drawn. Bors and Percival were already storming toward the door. "OK, somebody's itching for a fight."

"There has always been bad blood between Percival and Mordred. Besides, he needs battle the way most men need food. It keeps lit the fire within. Here." Galahad slid a sword across the table towards Dean. "You'll need this to defend yourself."

Dean scowled at the sword; it wasn't Galahad's–his was still in the scabbard. "Where the hell did you get that?"

Galahad motioned to the far end of the hall. "In the armory. Most of the weapons in there are children's toys, designed for play or practice. That is one of the few real ones. It could use a good sharpening but it will suffice."

"Thanks." Dean reached behind his back and pulled out his gun, placing it on the table beside the laptop. "But I think I'll stick with this."

Galahad frowned. "That will pierce their armor? When we rescued Sam, his attackers used that weapon on Percival. It bruised his chest but did not take him out of the fight."

Fuck–the armor. It'd be like shooting someone wearing a bulletproof vest. Dean forced a smile. "Guess I'll just have to plug him right between the eyes, won't I?"

"_You can't kill him…_." Sam's voice ran through his head. "_You really wanna risk changing 1,500 years of history_?"

"Son of a bitch." There was also the not-so-small matter of noise; gunfire tended to draw attention and Dean had no clue how good the soundproofing was within the exhibit hall. If it sucked, security–and police–would be on their asses in no time. Dean stared at his gun, a weapon so comfortable it felt like an extension of his own arm. But a sword? He picked up the blade trying out the weight. He'd used a machete to behead vamps countless times, a bushido blade to kill that shojo, but outside of Moondor, this was a first–an honest-to-god sword fight." He glanced up at Galahad. "Any advice?"

Galahad pointed at the computer screen to the tall, dark-haired man leading the others toward the exhibit hall. "That's Mordred–Percival will take him on, and anyone who tries to get between them."

Dean shot a look across the room to where Bors and Percival were both pacing behind the closed doors. "Good to know."

"The older man is Accolon, Morgan's lover and Mordred's second. You leave him to me." By the tone of Galahad's voice there was history there but twenty questions would have to wait. "The other two are Mordred's sons, Melehan and Medraig. Be warned–they have no honor. You face them, they will use any means necessary to claim victory."

Dean snorted. "Not so different from the bottom feeders I usually fight. And here I was thinking I'd have to be all chivalrous–you know, bow before we start and all that crap."

Galahad unhooked his cape from beneath the pauldrons and dropped it on the table before reaching for his gauntlets, a wry smile spreading across his face. "Bow before Mordred's sons, and you're most likely to lose your head."

Dean nodded. "Got it. Kick'em in the jewels it is."

Galahad frowned as took in Dean's jeans and shirt. "I'm certain some of the armor in here would fit you. It would offer far better protection than your own garments."

"Oh, no." Dean shook his head. "I'm gonna have a hard enough time figuring out this sword thing without wearing a tin can." He gestured to his feet. "Steel-toed boots–that's as close as I come to armor. I think my game plan is to knock the damn sword out of his hands, take it down to a fist fight." His gaze drifted to Galahad's breastplate. "A gut punch is kind of off the table, but I can still break the bastard's nose."

"And you will not be the first to have done so." Galahad pointed to his own armor. "The weakest points of the armor are at the neck, shoulder, elbow and knee. Aim your blows there for greatest effect."

"Got it." Dean turned toward the corner of the exhibit hall where his brother had gone in search of the grail. "Sam!" For once the numbers were in their favour; there were four of Mordred's men and five of them, meaning Sam could sit this one out. "Sammy! We're about to have company. Get your ass somewhere out of sight and hunker down."

Sam appeared from around one of the faux stone walls, breathless like he'd been moving quickly. He leaned against the wall to steady himself, and ventured a smile. "I think I found something. I–"

He was cut off by a loud bang followed by the sound of splintering wood. Dean's head snapped toward the doors. Bors and Percival now stood shoulder to shoulder, swords raised, watching as the locked doors started to buckle under an assault from the other side.

"You found something? Dude, your timing seriously sucks." Dean scrambled back to the table to check out the laptop; it was no surprise to see Mordred and Accolon standing outside the doors, swords raised much like the two knights inside, while Mordred's sons repeatedly put their shoulders to the door in an attempt to break it down. With each crash, the splintering of wood grew more pronounced; the door was sure as hell not designed to withstand an assault by two armoured men.

Dean pointed to the figures on the screen. "That one's Mordred, that's Accolon…."

"Morgan's lover." Sam's gaze jumped between the screen and the door.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. And the two human battering rams are Mordred's kids."

"Melehan and Medraig." Sam turned again towards the doors. "What can I do?"

"Like I said, get your ass out of sight. You're here for the treasure hunt, remember?" Dean shot his brother a look that clearly said this was not open for debate. "I'm pulling rank, Sammy. You are in no shape for a swordfight."

Sam snorted. "And you are?"

Dean picked up the sword from the table and shrugged. "I've got two working arms, which is one more than you, so yeah."

Sam swallowed. "Just make damn sure you keep both of 'em."

"That's the plan, believe me." Dean pointed to the computer. "Take that and hide. If anything goes sideways, get these guys home, then get the hell out."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I'm touched, Sammy, but I'll be back." Dean grinned as he picked up the sword. "I'm not checking out after you go and drop a cliff-hanger on me. I wanna know what you found." He winked, and turned to join the knights just as with a final ear-splitting crunch of splintering wood, the doors flew open and Mordred and his men stormed in.

**_To be continued…_**

**_A/N:_**_ And the battle begins… The conversation between Galahad and Sam at the beginning of this chapter was inspired by the scene in 8.21–The Great Escapist, where Sam recalls Dean reading to him from the Classics Illustrated version of The Knights of the Round Table and thinking he'd never been good enough to embark on such a quest. That was the launch pad for this fic. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and would love to hear what you think. Final instalment up Saturday. Til then, cheers._


	4. Chapter 4

**SUMMARY:** Murders in two separate cities draw the brothers into a case that has Sam teaming with someone he never thought he'd meet, and Dean fighting for his life in a way he never imagined. _Casefic. Chapter 4 of 4._

**SPOILERS:** _Technically, the story is set within Season 9, post trial-related fallout, but is a standalone case-fic–no spoilers–and may become slightly AU depending on the fallout from the Season 9 premiere. Right now, though, it fits within canon._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen calls them. _

**WORD COUNT:**_ Chapter Four: 10K+ Complete story: 30K+_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort_

**A/N:**_ This is the final of four chapters; to those of you who like to wait until a story is complete before reading - it's all here. Many thanks to everyone who joined me on this adventure and sent along such wonderful feedback; both mean a lot. Big hugs to my beta, Harrigan; my stories are always better with your help. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thanks also to Freya for the encouragement to get this done. Written to fill the 'Job-related Injury' square in my _h/c Bingo card over on LJ. _Enjoy! _

**Stainless and Honorable Lives**

**Chapter 4**

Sam walked up the three steps to the armory exhibit and glanced around. Two full suits of armor flanked the entrance, as if on guard. Inside, each of the walls was covered with swords, shields, lances–anything a knight would have used in battle. It was an impressive display of weaponry, but there was nothing that even remotely resembled a grail–in any of its possible forms.

He turned to leave but stopped when his gaze fell on a long, shallow crate on the floor. The customs labels made it obvious it was one of the boxes used to ship the exhibit items from the London museum to the States. An inventory list, identical to the one Sam, Galahad, and Rev. Jeffers had combed through back at the church, sat on top of the crate. The first dozen or so pages were folded back, with writing covering the margin on the opened page. Intrigued, Sam picked it up.

His eyes widened when he read the notes, obviously written by one of the museum employees while setting up the room. He dropped to his knees and pushed back the lid of the crate. There was just one artifact left inside, and Sam's heart started racing when he realized what it might be. "Oh my god…."

"Sammy! We're about to have company. Get your ass somewhere out of sight and hunker down."

Sam's head snapped toward Dean's shouted warning, and he staggered to his feet. Shoving the inventory list into his back pocket, he moved quickly down the armory's stairs and headed back towards his brother. When he rounded one of the faux-stone walls and saw Dean, he was light-headed from excitement and sudden exertion. His hand shot out reflexively, pressing against the wall to steady himself, but he ventured a smile. "I think I found something. I–"

A loud bang followed by the sound of splintering wood made him jump. Like Dean, his head snapped toward the origin of the noise–the doors to the exhibit hall. In front of them, Bors and Percival stood shoulder to shoulder, swords raised, watching as the doors buckled a little more with each blow.

"You found something? Dude, your timing seriously sucks." Dean scrambled back to the table to check out the laptop, with Sam close behind him. Sam studied the images on the screen; two armored knights standing outside the doors with swords raised, two more throwing themselves at the locked doors to break them down.

Dean pointed to the figures on the screen. "That one's Mordred, that's Accolon…."

"Morgan's lover." Sam's gaze jumped between the screen and the door, flinching as the door took another blow.

"Yeah. And the two human battering rams are Mordred's kids."

"Melehan and Medraig." Sam turned again towards the doors. "What can I do?"

"Like I said, get your ass out of sight. You're here for the treasure hunt, remember?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, come on. No way am I–"

"Sorry, Sammy–everyone's partnered up. At this hoedown, you get to play wallflower." Besides…." Dean picked up a sword from the table. "You're in no shape for a swordfight."

"And you are?" Sam stared at his brother incredulously. In all the weapons training they'd been subjected to growing up, broadswords had never really entered the picture. "When the hell did Dad teach you to use one of those?"

"He didn't." Dean held the sword with both hands, swinging it to test its weight. His smile at Sam was accompanied by a small shrug. "But I've got two working arms, which is one more than you."

"Just….just make damn sure you keep both of 'em."

Dean grinned. "That's the plan, believe me."

Sam swallowed bile; Dean was a damn good fighter and a quick study, but the knights had been trained to use a sword since they were kids. Then there was the armor versus his brother's street clothes. He scowled as Dean stripped off his long-sleeved shirt, leaving only his T-shirt and jeans. Even a glancing blow could….

"Take that and hide." Dean pointed to the computer. "If anything goes sideways, get these guys home, then get the hell out."

Sam shook his head. "Screw that. I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I'm touched, Sammy." Dean grinned. "But I'm not planning on checking out–not after you go and drop a cliff-hanger on me. I wanna know what you found." He winked, then turned to join the knights.

Sam slammed shut the laptop, shoved it in the duffel, then stepped behind one of the exhibit hall's large support columns. Yes, his shoulder was screwed, and yes, a broadsword required two hands to wield effectively, but being relegated to the sidelines still felt all kinds of wrong; there had to be something he could do….

With a final ear-splitting crunch of splintering wood, the doors flew open. Out of breath, Melehan and Medraig barged through then moved to each side, allowing Accolon and Mordred to follow them inside.

Mordred smiled as he caught sight of Galahad, Bors, and Percival; it was a cruel smile that turned Sam's stomach. "Well, well, well…." He bowed his head to Galahad. "This is a surprise."

"Wish I could say the same, you lying sack of shit," Percival growled.

"Sir Percival." Mordred's eyes glittered coldly as he turned to the knight. "As crass as ever, I see. Why Arthur tolerates your filth I will never understand. If I sat on the throne, your head would have been mounted on a pike long ago."

Percival matched his opponent's dark smile. "I will see you in Hell before your ass gets within a league of Camelot's throne."

Mordred chuckled. "I'm certain that can be arranged–sending you to Hell, I mean." His gaze traveled from one knight to the other before finally settling on Dean. "You must be desperate, Galahad. First you travel through time, then you allow this gutter rat to join your ranks."

Dean offered a mocking bow. "Good to see you live up to your billing. Sack of shit, indeed."

Galahad's voice was quiet, attempting to be the voice of reason. "There's nothing here for you, Mordred. Take your men and leave."

Mordred surveyed the exhibit hall. "Come now, Galahad–you're a pious man. You would never have embraced the magic it took to bring you here unless the reward was worth angering your god." He strode toward the nearest display case, studying the items inside. "No…. I'd say the plunder must be well worth the trip."

"Plunder? Now it is you who treat me as a half-wit. We both know why you came." Galahad's expression didn't change. "I ask you as one brother-in-arms to another–will you leave peacefully? What you seek does not belong with you."

Mordred's cruel smile widened. "We shall see." He lunged at Galahad, a loud metallic clang echoing through the exhibit hall as Percival stepped forward and blocked Mordred's strike with his own sword. Galahad spun out of the way and had his own sword raised in time to block an attack from Accolon.

A full-on battle quickly broke out.

Sam was in awe of the strength and savagery with which the knights on both sides fought. The grunts of exertion, the chilling clang of metal as offensive strike met defensive block echoed through the hall. Sam had worn Bors's armor for only a short time and he was amazed at how much the weight had slowed him down. But it seemed to have little effect on the knights; he had no idea how they could swing their swords with such ferocity, move with such grace while weighed down by all that metal.

Percival was paired with Mordred; size-wise they were evenly matched and their fighting styles similar, relying on brute strength. Galahad and Accolon, however, seemed more old-school, more in line with what Sam expected of a fight between knights. As for Bors…well, he just seemed annoyed that his opponent was young and green. He appeared content simply to defend himself…let the kid tire himself out before ultimately putting him out of his misery.

Hollywood had no fucking clue; any swordfight staged for movies or television paled in comparison to the scene playing out in front of him. Displays toppled, furniture splintered as each man battled in what was likely a fight to the death. It would have been fascinating to watch had his brother not been caught up in the middle of it.

Dean was paired up with one of Mordred's sons. He looked slightly younger than the one battling Bors, so Sam would assume it was Medraig. Dean didn't have the training or the grace of his opponent, but he had brains, fearlessness, and an uncanny ability to think on his feet. _"Why so shocked?"_ Dean had retorted when many years earlier Sam had once asked him about the latter. _"Life has dropped us headfirst in the shitpile so many times, we'd have suffocated long ago if we couldn't… improvise."_

His brother was definitely improvising here. Medraig was circling him arrogantly, his sword cutting through the air as he put on a display like an animal trying to intimidate his adversary into submission. But Dean wasn't easily intimidated; he didn't back down to anyone, especially in a fight. Medraig's antics were just pissing him off.

Sam moved in closer in time to see Dean flash a dangerous smile and throw out his own taunt. "Is this a dance or a fight? 'Cause, dude–I don't dance."

That pushed Medraig into action, and when he attacked, he was vicious; arrogance did not make him a weak opponent. But while Medraig was more experienced, Dean was more agile; he blocked strike after strike, effectively if clumsily, sometimes staggering under the force of a blow, but quickly regaining his feet .

When Medraig caught his breath, again peacocking around his opponent, Dean smiled. "That the best you got?"

Medraig returned the smile in kind. "Not even close."

The battle between Galahad and Accolon had moved closer to Sam, blocking his view of his brother. He darted for a pillar fifteen feet away, peering around it in time to see that Dean's taunt had fueled another attack. Medraig unleashed another flurry of strikes; Dean countered successfully but almost went down, regaining his balance at the last second. But he mistimed his last block, his adversary's sword sneaking through to carve a long slash across Dean's cheek.

Medraig smiled at drawing blood. Dean's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, he went on the offensive. He wouldn't earn many marks for form but, unencumbered by armor, he came at Medraig with a speed the knight was unused to, and Medraig was soon backpedaling under the force of each two-handed strike–something that both surprised and angered him. Then as Dean smashed his sword down on his adversary's, knocking it toward the ground, he let go of his own weapon with his right hand and leveled a solid punch to Medraig's face. Despite the noise from the other fights in progress, Sam liked to think he heard bone crack.

"You little fuck."

Yeah; by the sound of the knight's voice, Dean had broken his nose.

Dean grinned. "Mission one–accomplished."

Then the knight played dirty. He snapped a pouch from his belt and threw the contents in Dean's face. Choking on the black dust, his eyes watering, Dean stumbled backwards, swiping a hand across his face in an attempt to clear his vision while swinging the sword blindly one-handed just to keep his opponent at bay. Medraig was smirking, stalking toward Dean just waiting for his opening.

Sam riffled through the duffel then stepped into the open. "Hey!" As Medraig's attention snapped to him, Sam rolled a bottle of water along the floor toward his brother. "Dean–at your feet." He circled away from Dean, keeping the knight's focus on him and away from his brother. "That the only way you can win a fight? Blinding your opponent?"

Medraig studied Sam, making no attempt to hide his contempt. "No sword…no armor…. The rats are indeed rallying to Galahad's call."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched Dean crouch down, fumble around until he found the bottle, then quickly twist off the lid and tilt his head back to pour the water all over his face, rinsing away the dust. Sam glared at Medraig. "I dunno–taking on an unarmed man seems just your speed." He took a step forward. "Come on–what are you waiting for?"

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Medraig's smile was cruel. "But one rat at a time." He spun without warning, swinging his sword at Dean.

Dean had dropped the water bottle and again had both hands on his sword, but was still blinking to clear his vision. He reacted instinctively to the blur of movement in front of him, raising his sword in time to deflect the knight's blow. But the force of the strike knocked the sword from Dean's hands, and momentum carried through the strike, Medraig's blade slicing into Dean's side.

"No!" Sam's horrified shout disappeared almost immediately behind a gunshot. He'd reacted instinctively; the moment he saw Medraig spin towards Dean, Sam had reached for his gun. His aim was true, the bullet hitting Medraig between the shoulder and neck where the chain-mail was vulnerable.

Medraig went down immediately, but so did Dean, his knees buckling as he clutched at his side, his gray T-shirt beneath his hand rapidly turning red. Medraig gaped at Sam, unsure of what had happened, of what had taken him down.

Dean put him out of his misery. "Good night, knight." He slammed his fist into the man's jaw, likely breaking that along with his nose and knocking consciousness from him. With the momentum of the punch, Dean pitched forward and collapsed on top of Medraig with a groan.

Galahad was fighting Accolon a few feet from Dean. Whether it was the gunshot that distracted Accolon or the sight of his comrade going down, Sam couldn't be sure, but whichever it was gave Galahad the opening he needed. He drove his sword into a joint in Accolon's leg armor and when the man went down with a scream of pain, slammed the hilt of his sword into his head. Mordred's lieutenant was unconscious before he hit the ground. Galahad left him there and joined Sam in scrambling toward Dean.

"Hey…." Sam dropped to his knees at his brother's side, but needed Galahad's help to pull Dean off Medraig and roll him onto his back.

"Fuck." Dean swore loudly at being moved, then shot a bleary look at Sam. "You said don't shoot him, then you go and do it?"

"I never said don't shoot him." Sam pulled Dean's hand away from his side and peeled his T-shirt out of the way, revealing a long, deep gash running from just under the ribs to the pelvic bone. "I said don't kill him."

"Details, Sammy…. Son of a bitch…." Dean screwed his eyes closed, forcing out short breaths as Sam examined the wound. "How's that bullet in his neck gonna change history when we ship him home?"

Sam turned to Galahad. "I need the duffel bag–over there. It's got the first-aid kit in it."

Galahad nodded and went to get it.

Sam turned back to Dean and pressed his hand firmly over the wound. "We'll dig out the bullet, but I think his armor took the brunt of the shot. Besides…." His stomach lurched at the sight of his brother's blood on his hands. "If he'd–"

"But he didn't." Dean glanced up at Sam, a simple look offering unspoken reassurance; even hurt, he was still in full-on big brother mode.

"Damn it." Sam cleared his throat and pressed down a little harder. "We've gotta get the bleeding under control."

"I like that plan." Dean blinked to clear his vision, then glanced around. "How are the good guys doing?"

Sam turned toward the fights still in progress. "Two down, two to go."

Bors seemed to have tired of simply holding off his opponent; he was fighting in earnest now and real fear was visible on Melehan's face as he quickly realized he was outmatched. Stumbling sideways under the latest onslaught, Melehan snarled a curse, then threw black powder in Bors's face.

Bors roared in fury; Melehan smirked–then made the mistake of gloating.

"You're too slow, old man," he taunted. "No match for the strength of youth. You–"

Bors lunged at Melehan. Eyes screwed shut, zoning in on his opponent's voice, he swung his sword with all his weight behind it, knocking Melehan's sword from his hands. Before Melehan had a chance to react, Bors dropped his own sword and grabbed his opponent by the neck of his breastplate, yanked a dagger from his belt and plunged the blade into the younger knight's neck. Melehan died with shock still frozen on his face.

Dean swiped a hand over his eyes, blinking rapidly, as he watched the body crumple. "Dead?"

"Very."

"Well, that just rewrote a few pages of history. He–

"Bors–down!"

Bors reacted instinctively to Galahad's shouted warning, dropping to the ground. The dagger thrown at him by an incensed Mordred sailed over his head and plunged hilt deep into the wall.

With Bors in the clear, all eyes snapped to the one battle still in progress. Mordred had seen both sons and his lieutenant fall. Fury and hate seemed to refuel his strength, and he launched a renewed attack on Percival. The knight was holding his own, but slowly and deliberately being backed into a corner. Galahad dropped the duffel at Sam's side, raised his sword and moved quickly to help his friend.

Percival saw him coming and shook his head. "Don't you dare, brother. This bastard is all mine."

Mordred snorted contemptuously. "It seems all Galahad's rats have delusions of grandeur." He unleashed another vicious attack, with Percival countering each strike; Galahad reluctantly respected his friend's wishes, but stayed close.

The tide turned in an instant; a counter strike from Percival left Mordred slightly off-balance, and Percival launched himself at his opponent, sending them both crashing to the ground. His sword hand pinned under Percival's weight, Mordred had no defense against the punch that smashed into his jaw. Percival yanked a dagger from his belt and raised it, ready to strike.

"Percival–no!"

Percival snapped his head toward Galahad, incredulous at the order.

Galahad shrugged apologetically. "He is worth more to us alive. Restrain him. Bors – you are well?"

Bors shook off his gauntlet and swiped his hand over his eyes. "I'm bloody fine."

Galahad nodded. "Good–then help Percival."

As Bors stumbled forward to help do just that, Galahad turned back to Sam and Dean.

"Ow! Son of bitch!" Dean glared up at his brother, who was using a bottle of water from the duffel to flush the wound in his side. "Go easy there, Sammy."

"Sorry…sorry." Sam worriedly studied his brother. "How's the vision?"

"Blurry." Dean snorted. "So you've never looked better." He turned to Galahad. "But good enough to see what just went down. You sure keeping that bastard alive is the best idea?"

"No." Galahad glanced at Mordred, who was struggling to free himself as Bors and Percival yanked him to his feet. "But his death would simply ignite his mother's fury. If she is busy negotiating his release instead of scheming revenge, that will at least give Merlin the chance to enact some spell to prevent her from opening a door through time again, from undoing anything we may accomplish." He glanced down at Dean. "How can I help?"

Sam motioned to the gauze pad he had pressed against Dean's wound. "Put pressure on this while I flush his eyes."

Galahad shook his head. "The effects of the powder are temporary. His eyesight will soon clear. Focus your attention on the sword wound." The knight looked worried. "Mordred's men are known to devil their blades."

Dean scowled at the knight. "With what?"

Sam stomach lurched again as he wedged another bottle of water between his knees while unscrewing the cap, his left hand still not fully cooperating. "Some kind of poison, I'm guessing."

"So if the wound doesn't kill you, the poison will." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Fuck…."

Sam poured the entire bottle of water over the wound. He then reached instinctively for the antibiotics, but his hand froze on the bottle. "I can't give you this. If there's poison, I have no idea how it will react."

"Then use this." The knight handed Sam a pouch from his belt. "The powder of the calendula flower."

"Calendula…." Sam tipped some of the orange powder into his hand. "They still use this today. It helps the blood clot."

Galahad nodded. "And Merlin has added a few more ingredients to help battle Mordred's treachery."

Dean shot a suspicious look at powder in Sam's hand. "What kind of ingredients?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Ones that can counteract the poison. You really wanna know specifics?."

"Probably not."

When Dean gave a terse nod, Sam mixed some of the powder with water in the palm of his hand to form a salve, then spread it on the wound.

"Beyond magic, Merlin is a skilled healer." Now it was Galahad's turn to offer reassurance. "You have done much to help us. I would not offer if I believed it posed any threat."

"Thanks–I"ll hold you to that." Dean looked on as Sam ripped a pressure bandage from its sterile packaging and pressed it into place over the salve. "You done?"

Sam nodded. "For now, but we need you checked out. Medieval poisons are little beyond my first aid skills."

"One crisis at a time, Sammy." Dean held up a hand. "Help me up."

Sam shook his head. "No way. You need to stay as still as possible until–"

"Fine. I'll do it myself." Dean began to push himself up.

"Damn it, Dean…."

Galahad frowned. "Do you need assistance in restraining him?"

"Back off, G." Dean glared at the knight. "I was just starting to like you. Don't make me change my mind."

Reluctantly, Sam moved in to help Dean to his feet. He knew better than to fight his brother; on this they were too much alike. Dean was no more staying put on the floor than Sam would've stayed at the church. Once upright, Dean seemed to pale a little more, but he was at least steady when Sam released his hold.

Bors and Percival were striding towards them, Mordred struggling between them, his arms pinned behind his back. The prisoner spat at Galahad, then started chanting something that to Sam sounded like an incantation. Whatever it was ended abruptly when Percival decked him.

"Did I not make myself clear," Percival grabbed Mordred's face. "You start pulling that dark magic shite and I'm gonna pull off your gauntlet and shove it so far down your throat it comes out the other end. We clear?"

Mordred just glared in response. Sam bent down and riffled through the duffel. "Here, use this to bind his hands." He held up a zip tie and demonstrated how it worked. "Put this end through here and pull. Trust me, he won't get out of it. There's more to use on the others, too."

Mordred was quickly secured to one of the pillars near the round table. There he was in plain sight, but far enough away that the brothers and the knights could still talk without being overheard. After Dean showed Percival a roll of duct tape, and what to do with it, the knight took great pleasure in slapping a piece over Mordred's mouth. Mordred's eyes lit up with renewed fury at that indignity. Bors and Percival then dragged the unconscious knights and Medraig's body into the open area of the exhibit hall near the entrance. When they were done, that's where they'd open the portal.

As Galahad walked back toward the brothers, his gaze fell on the bloodstain that covered much of Dean's shirt. "I am sorry you were injured trying to help us. I owe you a great debt."

"You owe me squat." Dean took in the damage the battles had caused: display cases upended–the glass smashed and contents shattered; paintings slashed; the faux stone walls torn and leaning. "All in a day's work, right?"

Galahad sighed. "Mordred does not have the grail–that is something. But we also have nothing."

"Hold the phone…." Dean grimaced as he moved too quickly, his left arm pressing tightly against his injured side. "You missed Sammy's big announcement, didn't you?"

Galahad turned to Sam, a puzzled expression on his face.

"I, um…." Sam cast a glance at the armory. "Just before Mordred and his men burst in here… I think I found something."

The knight's eyes widened. "Not–

"No." Sam shook his head. "Not the grail itself–but something definitely connected to it. And if I'm right, it's definitely what Mordred was after." He turned to the knights, Bors and Percival now standing on either side of Galahad, listening intently. "You already know that our history books are next to useless, so I just need to know…." He glanced from one knight to the next. "Does Castle Corbenic mean anything to any of you?"

Percival scowled. "I was there less than two moons past…escorting my sister to care for our ailing uncle who is master of Corbenic."

Sam's expression brightened a little. "Your sister is Dindrane, and your uncle Pelles–the Fisher King?"

Percival's expression darkened. "What kind of devilry is this? You cannot know–"

"Stand down, Percy." Dean unsteadily took a step forward, placing himself between Sam and Percival, a warning hand against the knight's chest. "There's no devilry–just an Ivy League education and Sammy's freaky memory. He's going somewhere with this, trust me." He nodded to his brother to continue.

"Look, in several versions of the…folk tales we know, Dindrane and Pelles play central roles in the grail legend." Sam swallowed. "Backing up a bit…. At the time of the crucifixion, there was a man named Bron. He's thought to be the brother-in-law of Joseph of Arimathea, and the man Joseph originally entrusted with the grail. All the guardians of the grail are descended from Bron." He glanced from Percival to Galahad. "Including Pelles–who, if I remember your family tree right, is not just Percival's uncle, but Galahad's grandfather. This ringing any bells?"

Galahad frowned. "Percival and I are blood kin, that much is true – and we know of these guardians. But if we are descended from this Bron, are destined to become guardians, this is the first I am hearing of it."

Sam shrugged. "Given the idea of the guardians is to keep the grail off the radar, I'm guessing it may be a piece of family history that's shared only on a need-to-know basis. You didn't need to know–until you were next in line as guardian. I think this quest is kind of a trial run."

Galahad's frown deepened. "But my father still lives. If what you say is true, would he not be the next to serve?"

"I got this one." Dean gave Galahad a sympathetic shrug. "Lancelot kinda blew it when he fooled around with another man's wife. That pretty much takes him out of the running for anything 'stainless and honorable'–moves you to the front of the line."

Galahad looked puzzled. "This still makes no sense. How can Pelles be guarding something that is lost?"

"Because I don't think it is." Sam exhaled slowly. "I think the grail is still safely hidden at Castle Corbenic."

Dean shot him a WTF look on that one, voicing what each of the knights was also thinking. "If the grail is stashed safe and sound, one, why send Galahad and the boys to hunt it down? And, two, what the hell led them to 2013?"

Sam was pacing as he mentally sorted through the facts. "The grail is a symbolic object–hugely important historically, culturally–but, at the risk of being struck down for saying it, that's all. It has no power. One school of thought says it was simply a serving dish that held the lamb at the Last Supper."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "They sent three knights on a quest for a dirty dish?"

"Like I said, symbolically–it's a big deal." Sam glanced over at Mordred who was still struggling with his bonds, glaring at the men from the far side of the room. "But why would Morgan and Mordred want it? They're not even Christians."

Dean scowled at the trussed knight. "You mean other than a giant 'Fuck you–we found it first'? Or, 'Arthur can have it if he turns over the throne to Mordred.'" His focus returned to his brother. "I'm guessing you've got a third option?"

Sam nodded. "Another theory says the grail was the cup that held the blood of Christ–blood from a wound in his side after a Roman soldier stabbed him with a lance during the crucifixion. His weapon became known as the Bleeding Lance because, at least according to legend, whenever it's placed near the grail, it starts to bleed."

"Wait…I remember this." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face as he sorted through dusty memories. "Pastor Jim told me about it once when we were cleaning the weapons in his church. It's mentioned in the Bible but disappeared after the crucifixion. There's all kind of theories about who took it and where it was hidden." He glanced again at Mordred. "It's also supposed to be some kind of bad-ass weapon–has the power to heal along with the power to kill."

Sam nodded. "Legend also says the man who possesses it will have unlimited power."

Galahad cast a glance at Mordred. "And as the man trying to take the throne from Arthur, that would be reason enough for Mordred to want it."

Again, Sam nodded. "He's just one in a long list of power-hungry men who've tried to find it over the centuries." He shrugged at Dean. "Hell, it was even on Hitler's wish list."

Dean snorted. "The douchebag had necromancers on the payroll, so jonesing after a holy WMD? No shock there."

"If all this is true," Percival snarled, "when we get home, I'm going to take my lance and shove it up Merlin's arse. We've spent years riding all over seven kingdoms in search of the wrong fucking thing."

Galahad smiled. "Some of that fault rides on our own shoulders. Merlin said only that when our quest was successful, we'd know it. We simply assumed we were seeking the grail."

"Because he told us the story of the fucking grail before he sent us out on the bloody quest," Percival growled. "What the hell were we supposed to think we were looking for."

Sam smiled; Percival certainly had a point. "Look, what Merlin did kinda makes sense. Anyone who met you would see three knights on a quest to recover a sacred object–a pretty noble goal. But if they knew you were hunting for a legendary weapon that gives the man who possesses it great power…." He shot another glance at Mordred. "You'd have a lot more competition than just Mordred and his men."

"And perhaps figuring out the true purpose of this quest is all part of proving our true worth as guardians." Galahad turned to Sam and bowed his head. "We are indebted to you and your brother."

Sam shook his head. "No…you have no idea what it means to be part of this."

Dean stared at Sam for a moment, a smile toying with the corners of his mouth before he cleared his throat. "And you believe this Bleeding Lance is in the museum?"

"I think so. Check this out." Sam reached for his back pocket and pulled out the inventory list he'd found earlier. "This was on a crate in the armory. One of the museum employees has written notes all over it. Turns out, they found a piece that wasn't on the list. Because it seemed to be a genuine artifact, they called the London museum but couldn't get hold of anyone because of the time difference. They called Chicago, and it looks like someone there was a little sloppy with their record-keeping, because they pulled the old 'We don't know what you're talking about' defense. Chicago either left the lance in the crate or stuck it in a display without cataloguing it. It wasn't noticed until it arrived here in St. Louis."

Guilt now fueled Galahad's frown. "I was drawn to that armory. Felt…something there. But I was so focused on finding the grail, I overlooked what was right under my nose." He snorted. "What kind of guardian does that make me?"

"A human one." Sam took a step closer to Galahad. "Before you kick yourself too hard, maybe we should take a look at it and make sure I'm right." He smiled. "I'm human, too–got plenty of screw-ups on my record." He gestured with his head towards the armory. "It's in a long, flat crate on the floor."

Galahad nodded at Bors and Percival and the two knights headed for the armory, returning a few moments later, carrying the crate between them. They set it down in front of Galahad, and removed the lid. The lance that lay inside the crate was very ordinary in appearance–the shaft almost seven feet in length, the wood grayed and cracked with age, and topped with a triangular head affixed by a socketed iron shank. Galahad bent down to pick it up; as his fingers curled around the wood, etched markings suddenly became visible just below the shank.

"What the hell is that?" Dean leaned in to study the mark. "Long…Longinus." He frowned. "I know that name."

"As do I." Galahad stared at the etching. "Longinus was the Roman soldier whose lance pierced our Lord's side when he was on the Cross."

Sam's chest tightened with excitement as he reached for the lance. "May I?"

Galahad handed over the lance, but as Sam took hold of it, the etching vanished. "What…." Sam looked shocked for a moment, then a smile spread slowly across his face. He turned to his brother. "Dean, take it–I wanna check something."

Dean took the lance; there was still no sign of the etched mark.

"Hand it to Bors."

In the knight's hands, the lance remained unmarked.

"OK, Percival–your turn."

As Percival took the lance, the word Longinus slowly reappeared.

Sam's smile widened. "It's some kind of…warding on it–a protective spell as a last line of defense. To most of us it's just an old–very old–but ordinary weapon. But in the hands of the descendants of Bron, the guardians of the grail–"

"It reveals its true origin." Galahad smiled at Percival, who still held the lance. "What would the gentlefolk of Camelot think of Sir Percival now?"

Percival just looked overwhelmed. "Bugger me–take it." He quickly handed it back to Galahad. "Before God realizes his mistake and lightning strikes me dead."

Galahad grinned, then placed the lance reverently back in the crate. "This has remained hidden for centuries. How is it that it is now so carelessly left unguarded?"

"Based on what Sammy found, I'd say it was never supposed to be part of this exhibit, never supposed to leave London." Dean seemed shaky as he took a few steps backwards. "Best guess? I'm going with latest guardian dropped dead. Between Chicago and here, that lance has been in America for close to a month. No way would it have gone AWOL that long if there was somebody around to notice it was gone."

"Speaking of noticing…." Sam checked his watch. "We've got about fifteen minutes before that meeting upstairs is over." He surveyed the damage in the exhibit hall. "None of us wants to be here when they see this."

Galahad nodded. "Then it is time we all returned home." He frowned at the blood stain on Dean's shirt. "But the lance supposedly possesses the power to heal. Can we not use it to heal each of your wounds? Surely that would be an honorable use given your service to its protection here today."

Dean shook his head. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll stick with modern medicine. Messing with weapons of God, especially ones Hitler wanted–that's just got 'bad idea' written all over it."

Sam swallowed; he wanted so badly to say '_No._ _Go for it–make Dean better_.' The sword wound didn't worry him too much; he'd stitch that up and, with time and rest, Dean would be fine. But if poison was involved…that was a whole different ball game. But Dean was right; as much as he hated to admit it, they couldn't use it–it was just as likely to kill him as cure him. "No, just pack it up and get it safely to Corbenic–make sure neither Mordred nor anyone like him ever gets their hands on it. I'll take care of Dean." He glanced at his brother. "It's what we do."

Galahad smiled. "So I've noticed."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Less than ten minutes later, Galahad was ready to begin the spell.

After Sam had done one last check on the computer, the cameras showing the meeting upstairs beginning to wrap up, he shoved the laptop in the duffel and Bors carried the bag to the exit closest to their car, where he dropped it beside the door. Bors then joined Percival, and the two knights freed Mordred from the pillar before marching him between them to stand beside his men and the crate holding the Bleeding Lance. Each gave a final bow to the brothers, a gesture promptly returned.

Galahad added the final ingredient to a small bowl and picked up the parchment on which the words to the spell were written. "Are you sure there is nothing more I can do to repay your kindness?" He glanced worriedly at Dean. "It would be my honor to carry you from here to a place of safety before I go."

"Hell no. No one's carrying me anywhere," Dean growled. "I can walk my own damn self to the car."

Galahad turned questioningly to Sam, who just nodded. "We'll get home in one piece. Thanks. You just do the same."

Galahad took a step toward his men, then turned back. "You do know that Camelot sits within the walls of the City of Winchester?"

Dean's eyebrow peaked. "I thought that was just more folk tale B.S."

Sam nodded. "I mean, even our so-called experts can't even agree where Camelot was, or if it even existed."

"Oh it exists–I assure you. It is my home." Galahad smiled. "And since you carry the name of Winchester as your own, then it seems it was also home to your forebears. It would not surprise me to learn that your ancestors were at my side in battle, fighting as fiercely as you did today."

Dean snort quickly turned into a pained grimace. "Hopefully they were fighting with you, not against you."

Galahad's smile widened. "Of that I have no doubt." He reached inside his cowl and tugged at a chain, freeing it from his armor then pulling it over his head. "Here." He offered the chain to Sam "I ask that you accept this as a token of my gratitude for your services to the Crown."

Sam's eyes widened when he saw the amulet that hung from the chain–a red rampant dragon holding a cross against a backdrop of Camelot's Round Table. He shook his head. "We can't… we can't take that."

"Why?" Dean glanced from the amulet to Sam. "Why can't we?"

"It's too much." Sam again shook his head. "It's the symbol of the Brotherhood of the Round Table. Only those called to serve by King Arthur himself were given those."

"And if Arthur were here, he would bestow this on the two of you himself." Galahad grabbed Sam's arm and dropped the amulet into his hand, folding his fingers over it. "To refuse would be considered a great insult."

"And we don't wanna insult him, do we Sammy?" Dean grinned at his brother. "I mean, the dude's a total badass with that sword. Pissing him off just wouldn't end well."

"Yeah." Sam allowed a small smile to escape, then glanced up at Galahad and nodded his thanks. "It was an honor."

"No…." Galahad bowed gracefully. "Sir Samuel, Sir Dean–the honor is mine. Your methods may be… unorthodox, but in your hearts, you are true knights of the Round Table."

Dean weakly smacked his brother. "Hear that–we're knights. That is so cool."

With a smile and another bow, Galahad turned and rejoined his men. After igniting the mixture in the bowl and reciting the words of the spell, there was a loud crack that made both brothers flinch, a brilliant flash of red light, then nothing. The knights had returned to the past.

Sam smiled. "And you'd never even know they were here."

Dean snorted, glancing again at the destruction that surrounded them. "You're kidding, right?"

"Yeah…suppose I am." Sam moved to put his good arm around Dean's back, lending support. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here."

Dean batted away Sam's arm. "Dude, I'm good. Just move."

Sam glanced down at Dean's injured side; despite the arm cradled protectively around it, it was easy to see blood leaching through the bandage. He was pale, sweat visible on his forehead, and his breathing too shallow, too rapid. "Dean, what's going on in there?""

"I feel like crap, so let's just…go home." Dean was already moving toward the exit.

Sam fell in step beside him. They were almost out of the hall when a metallic glint in one of the display cases caught Sam's eye. "Son of a bitch…."

"What?" Dean turned unsteadily. "What son of a bitch?"

"Looks like the knights got home safely." Sam gestured with this head toward the case. "In there, one of the exhibits–it's a piece of foil." He read the card under the fragment. "_This small piece of processed aluminium foil has confounded experts. Found during an architectural dig in the City of __Winchester__, __England__, it has been carbon dated to the 5th Century._"

Dean snorted. "Percival and his sandwich, right?"

"Yeah. Guess he took one for the road."

"I liked him." Dean smiled tiredly, setting off again for the exit. "He was my favorite."

"Can't think why?" Sam glanced over at his brother; Dean was moving robotically, one foot in front of the other. If he stopped now, there was good chance he wouldn't get started again. The best thing to do was keep him talking, keep him distracted. "You still think Batman could kick Galahad's ass blindfolded?"

"What?"

"When we were kids, you read me that comic–_Classics Illustrated_–about the knights and the Holy Grail. You didn't think much of Galahad back then." As they reached the exit, Sam pulled the passkey he'd swiped from the docent from his pocket. "Pretty sure you called him a pansy."

Dean stared at Sam like he'd just grown a second head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's convenient." Sam swiped the card through the reader and pushed the door open. After Dean walked through, he picked up the duffel and followed him. "Where'd you park the car?"

Dean had to think for a moment, which really amped up Sam's worry. "Um…over there, by the exit."

Sam nodded. "OK. Wanna stay here and I'll bring the car to you?"

Dean was moving again. "Already halfway there, Sammy–keep up."

Sam had to smile at that, and quickly fell in step beside his brother.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean slid into the passenger seat of the Impala under his own steam–or maybe Sam had helped him; things got a little fuzzy right about then. Very few places felt safe to Dean, but his car was one of them; maybe it finally felt OK to let his guard down–or maybe he'd just run out of juice.

He'd made it out of the museum upright–that much he was sure of. Sam talked the whole damn time on the trek from the exhibit hall to the car. It would've been annoying except he knew exactly what his brother was doing; giving him something to focus on besides the pain ripping through his side, his blurry vision, and just how much harder it was getting to focus on… well, anything.

Dean rolled his head across the seatback; Sam was beside him now, behind the wheel. That always felt wrong; it was his car–he was the driver, Sam rode shotgun. If it was a long-haul trip and they were pressed for time, they'd spell each other off; he was cool with that. But this…this didn't feel cool at all.

Sam was talking again but someone had hit the mute switch. He could see his brother's lips moving, see the worry etched into his face, but he couldn't hear a word Sam was saying. He scowled when Sam leaned in and pressed his hand on Dean's forehead. "Get the hell off." The sounds that came out sounded nothing like the words he was going for. He tried to pull away from Sam but suddenly seemed frozen in place.

Images flashed through his head of his fight with Medraig, of breaking the knight's nose, of the powder thrown in his face, of the searing burn when the sword sliced through his side. _"Mordred's men are known to devil their blades." _ explained a few things–especially the terrified look on Sam's face as he grabbed for his phone. It was the last thing Dean remembered before the lights went out.

The next moment of awareness everything was in reverse; Dean couldn't see much but his hearing was working just fine. He heard the familiar, comforting rumble of the Impala's engine–and Baby was doing a full-out sprint. He was being tossed gently side-to-side, meaning they were on curving back roads, not city streets–a guess confirmed when he peeled open his eyes. It was dark outside–middle-of-the-night dark–the inky blackness broken only occasionally by a random streetlight.

"No, four hours is too far. He needs a doctor _now_." Sam's voice fell somewhere between pissed and panic. "If I knew one, I wouldn't be calling you, would I?"

Dean scowled at the itchy feel of wool on bare skin–he was covered by Dad's old army blanket. The damn thing always made him itch. He rolled his head toward Sam; his brother had his phone in his right hand, pressed to his ear, his left hand on the wheel. Something about that wasn't good, but Dean couldn't think what.

"Ben Chase? That's the doc from Bobby's book? No…no–that's good. And he's where? OK–I'm maybe…twenty minutes away. Just make damn sure he knows we're coming…. No, I have no idea what the hell the poison is so tell him to be ready to do blood tests." Sam glanced over at Dean and forced a smile. "Hey…. Just hang in there. We'll have you feeling better in no time." Somehow Dean didn't buy the smile that accompanied the reassurance.

The next time Dean woke, two things were very different–he wasn't in the car any more, and it wasn't dark outside. He squinted against the sun streaming in through the window and wished someone would close the damn drapes; the bright light was giving him a headache. He felt like someone had put him through the spin cycle at the Laundromat after he'd downed a fifth of Johnny Walker.

He frowned as he glanced around; it wasn't the bunker, and it wasn't a motel room–more like some kind of makeshift hospital. Yeah, the IV in his arm, the meter on his finger, the itchy leads taped to his chest all confirmed that. But the monitor beside his bed kicked it up a notch when he glanced to his left; Sam was in an adjacent bed.

Sam was awake, the head of his bed propped up so he was almost sitting up. He was facing away from Dean, lost in thought, and his arm was back in a sling. Dean's frown deepened at that; Sam had been shot, but he'd ditched the sling. Why was it back now?

"Hey." Sam turned toward Dean, smiling when he saw his brother was awake. "How you feeling in there?"

Dean tried to answer but his voice was on strike again.

"It's OK… it's OK." Sam threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed; one step and he was at Dean's bedside. "You've had a rough ride but the worst is over. You're gonna be fine." He smiled when he realized Dean's frown was directed at his sling. "This? It's fine, Dean. The doc fixed me up right after he took care of you. Be good as new in no time."

Dean's frown deepened. Why the hell had Sam's voice suddenly developed a weird echo. He also felt really hot–and not in a good way; more like someone had lit a fire underneath his bed. His chest tightened, too, making it damn hard to breathe.

"Oh, fuck. Doc! Get in here!"

The shout for help, the expression on Sam's face didn't make Dean feel any better; he knew Sam's worried face all too well. Something was definitely wrong. He frowned when a gray-haired man he didn't know appeared beside his brother. The stethoscope around his neck made it a good bet he was the 'Doc' Sam had shouted for, but that's about as far as Dean got when it came to figuring things out; he was halfway through a silent objection to the oxygen mask placed over his face when everything faded to black.

Dean blinked three times to get his vision to focus. When it did, he was staring at an old dresser. It sat in front of a brick wall, magazines stacked neatly on top of it beside an old metal desk lamp.

He smiled; the space hadn't been his for long, but it was his. He was back in his room at the bunker, lying in his own bed.

Dean exhaled slowly; he felt like he'd just won a battle with the flu–starving and zero energy, but otherwise OK. He rolled onto his back and did a quick triage; arms and legs both worked, it didn't hurt to breathe and, unlike the last few times he'd woken up, it didn't hurt to think, either. His head was clear.

The events of the past few days ran through his head in fast forward–Sam getting shot, meeting Galahad and the knights, fighting Mordred's son, getting slashed and poisoned…. He slid his hand to his side; a heavy bandage was hidden beneath his T-shirt–a clean T-shirt, one with no blood, no gaping hole where the sword had cut through both fabric and skin. He smiled again. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam.

There was no sign of his brother. "Sam!" His voice was a hoarse croak. If his brother was anywhere in the bunker other than right outside the door, there was no way in hell he'd hear him.

"Screw it." He sat up quickly–too quickly. His injured side screamed its objection to the movement, and he slumped back onto the pillow, the walls of his room spinning in a dizzying kaleidoscope. He swallowed, fighting the urge to puke. "Oh, son of a bitch…."

Dean lay still, waiting for the room to stop spinning and his stomach to settle. "OK, let's try this again." He threw back the covers, slowly swung his legs off the bed, then pushed himself up, letting the muscles on his healthy side do most of the work. This time, there was no dizziness. Exhaling slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He pulled a face at the feel of cold floors under bed-warm feet, but he was up and moving under his own steam.

In the doorway he paused to survey his room. His gun–cleaned by the looks of it–was back on his nightstand beside his wallet, his duffel at the foot of his bed. His stuff was back where it should be–in his room. Dean was smiling again as he moved slowly down the hall. It felt good to be home.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam sat at the map table in the bunker, tapping his pen absently against the polished wood while staring at the amulet Galahad had given them.

It had been more than a week since the knights returned to their own time. Dean had lost consciousness shortly after they reached the Impala, and the early part of their high-speed exit from St. Louis was a blur of frantic phone calls as Sam sought medical help for his brother. Hospitals were out; the cops in San Francisco and Chicago had finally touched base after discovering the similarities in their cases, and sword wound was suddenly trending nationwide on law enforcement bulletins. Dean would be cuffed to a gurney the moment an ER doc got a look at him.

Sam drove instead to a retired doctor who now exclusively treated hunters. Dr. Ben Chase seemed liked a good guy, came with solid references, but it was the first time Sam had met him, had needed his services. Ben had seemed a little pissed when Sam insisted on watching his every move as he stitched up Dean and tested his blood to identify the poison. He hadn't fought Sam though; he'd dealt with enough hunters to know how that would turn out.

Hunting had left Sam pretty much immune to the sight of blood, but his brother's was his Achilles heel. It stirred up too many nightmarish memories–of Dean being ripped apart by hellhounds; of him being pummeled senseless by Sam's own fists under Lucifer's control; of him unmoving and barely alive in the back seat of a crushed Impala after being tortured by their possessed Dad; of him dying over and over and over in the Trickster's sick, twisted déjà vu lesson. That sensory overload combined with injury and the waning effects of painkillers trumped even Winchester stubbornness; about seventeen hours after the brothers landed on Ben Chase's doorstep, Sam passed out cold on the floor of the doctor's surgery.

He woke up a day later, pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics, Dean still unconscious in the bed five feet away. Ben had identified the poison and had given Dean the antidote. His life was no longer in danger but he was in for a rough ride over the next few days. There was no bullshit in that diagnosis; the ride had been rough–on both brothers.

When the worst was over, Sam had brought him home to his own room, his own bed. He smiled, Dean's voice playing out in his head. i"Memory foam, Sam–it remembers me."/i After all the crap his brother had been through, waking up here would be the best thing for him.

"Sammy?"

Sam's head snapped up. Dean, still wearing the sweat pants and old gray T-shirt Sam had dressed him in when they'd first gotten back, stood on the opposite side of the table, his arm cradled around his injured side. He looked stubbled and pale, but it was the first time Sam had seen him vertical in more than a week. "Hey….You should've called…I would've helped."

Dean snorted. "One, I've been walking longer than you–I'm good on my own, and two…." He gestured to Sam's sling. "I don't think you're in any shape to haul my sorry ass anywhere."

Sam smiled. After days of nothing but grunts and unintelligible mumbles as he kept Dean medicated and hydrated, it was good to have his smart-ass brother back. "How you feeling?"

"Starving." Dean eased himself slowly into a chair opposite Sam and grinned. "Maybe I'll make myself some sand-warlocks."

Sam returned the smile. "Stay put. I'll make'em." He put down his pen and pushed the chair away from the table. "What kind do you want?"

"Park it, Sammy. Grub'll wait." Dean motioned for Sam to sit. "I want a little 4-1-1 as an appetizer. Last thing I remember clearly was crawling into the Impala after our showdown at the museum."

Sam sat back down. "I wanted us well out of St. Louis before they found the actor's body. So, I put my foot down…didn't take it off the pedal 'til we rolled into the doctor's driveway."

"Gray-haired guy?"

Sam nodded. "His name is Ben Chase…he's a good guy."

Dean shook his head. "Never heard of him. How'd you find him?"

Sam swallowed. "Garth recommended him."

"Oh, god." Dean rolled his eyes. "There's three words that should never be strung together."

Sam snorted. "This coming from a guy who went to Dr. Robert–willingly."

Dean just frowned at that. "I remember bits and pieces from the doc's place." He motioned again to Sam's sling. "Why's that back?"

Sam shrugged. "We were there long enough that the infection cleared up so he was able to operate…put me back together."

Dean frowned. "Son of a bitch…. How long was I out?"

Sam pushed back his sling to check the calendar on his watch. "Galahad and crew went through the portal ten days ago."

"Ten days?" Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Shit…I've got memories covering maybe ten minutes of that."

Sam's smile didn't quite make it to his eyes. "Yeah…. It's been rough. You really feeling OK?"

"Yeah…really." Dean grinned. "Or I will after I eat. What happened after the shit hit the fan at the museum?"

Sam picked up his pen, again tapping it on the table. "The gala was postponed, a special task force working with cops in San Francisco and Chicago was formed to look into the sword attacks–even the State Department is involved because the exhibit items destroyed belong to the United Kingdom. Oh, and I dug around a bit into British news archives. Turns out a Sebastian Bellamy and his son Arthur were involved in a car wreck two days before the exhibit shipped out. Sebastian is director of antiquities for the museum, Arthur his assistant, being groomed to take over when dad retires."

"The guardians?"

Sam nodded.

"Two generations taken out in one accident–no wonder no one noticed the lance was missing."

"Exactly." Sam frowned. "But they're still not making a fuss–so I'm trying to figure out what that means."

"Maybe now that Galahad and crew have the lance, they found a better place to hide it and it was never shipped out in the first place." Now Dean's frown matched his brother's. "But then why do you and me still look like we've been through a meat grinder? If the lance was never shipped here, Galahad and Mordred would never have come through the portal, we'd have never fought Mordred's men…." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The only constant with time travel is that my head hurts every time we try to make sense of it." He glanced over at Sam. "What about us? We get tied to this mess in any way?"

Sam shook his head. "The only faces caught by the security cameras were Mordred and his men."

"And good luck finding them." Dean grimaced as he tried to find a more comfortable position.

Sam nodded. "For the past two days, I've been poking around the police computers, tapping in to some conference calls. They've discovered the looped footage, are pissed about the gaps but, bottom line, they can't recover what was never recorded. The only thing that could really be traced back to us…." He swallowed, picturing the heavy bandages now hidden beneath Dean's T-shirt. "Is your blood. And I um, kind of tampered with the lab results. Shouldn't be a problem."

"That's my boy." Dean frowned. "And big picture-wise–we screw up any history?"

"Don't think so." Sam glanced at the stack of the books at the end of the table, books on Arthurian history he'd spent a good chunk of the past couple of days poring over. "Bors originally killed Melehan at the Battle of Camlann, after Melahan killing Bors' brother. Now, it looks like Medraig killed Bors's brother in retaliation for Melahan's death and Bors killed Medraig at Camlann."

Dean squinted at Sam. "Dude, I just woke up."

Sam grinned. "There's a few more twists and turns to the story, but we basically ended up in the same place."

"Good." Dean scanned the bunker. "And speaking of same place, how'd we get back here?"

Sam shrugged. "We got back two days ago. You've been mostly asleep since."

"I didn't ask when, Sammy–I asked how?" Dean gestured again to Sam's sling. "I didn't walk in, no way you carried me…. So, how?"

Sam's jaw clenched; this wasn't going to go over well. "Garth."

Dean's eyes narrowed again. "Garth drove us here?"

Sam nodded.

"So where's my car?"

Sam gestured toward the door. "Outside, where it always is."

Dean started to look nauseous. "I'm not liking where this is going."

Sam swallowed. "Look, you were out of it, I was a long way from a hundred percent, but I didn't want to leave the Impala behind, so…."

Dean's eye twitched. "Who was behind the wheel, Sammy?"

"Who do you think?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I wanna hear you say it–who was behind the wheel?"

Sam blew out a breath. "Garth, Dean–Garth drove the car."

Dean looked like a goldfish for a few seconds, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly until his could wrap his head around that idea. "Did that doc throw in a free lobotomy when he had you under? You let Garth drive Baby?"

"Dean, chill. The car's fine." Sam snorted. "Trust me–of the three of us, she's in the best shape. Besides, since we're keeping the bunker on a need-to-know basis, it was either Garth driving or we were stuck at the doctor's place 'til you came to. I just figured you'd rather wake up here."

Dean had a look on his face that said Sam was right, but there was no way in hell he was admitting it.

Sam tried a smile. "Seriously, Dean–the Impala's good…not a scratch. Garth even offered to wash and wax it. Don't worry…." He cut off Dean as he started to object. "I told him you were pretty picky about that stuff, that you'd rather do it yourself."

"Oh, no." Dean shook his head. "Once that sling comes off, you Sam Winchester, are detailing her top to bottom, inside and out, while I park my ass on a cooler, beer in hand, and supervise. Letting Garth drive…." His rant trailed off as he caught sight of the amulet Galahad had given them. It now sat in a silk-lined wooden box on the table, surrounded by library cards covered in Sam's writing. "What are you doing with that?"

"I figured I should catalog it before we stash it away…record its history, symbolism…." Sam picked up the amulet and handed it to Dean. "The cross, that's to remind the knights of the love of God and man the order is based on, and to live stainless and honorable lives in the pursuit of noble deeds."

"One grail-slash-Bleeding-Lance quest–check."

Sam nodded. "The dragon–that's Arthur's symbol, so that represents the knights' allegiance to king and country."

Dean frowned. "Galahad honored us for service to the Crown." He glanced up at Sam. "As Americans, does that make us turncoats?"

Sam grinned. "When Arthur was on the throne, America wouldn't exist for almost thirteen hundred years, so, technically, no. And if Galahad's right, and our ancestors came from the City of Winchester, they would have fought for king and country right alongside the knights."

"Alongside?" Dean snorted. "We're blue collar, Sammy–not blue blood. Chances are our great-great-times-whatever grandfather would've been a front-line grunt, holding up a pike not a sword."

"Maybe." Sam glanced around. "But the Men of Letters had to start somewhere. I'll bet that between battles our great-great-times-whatever grandfather was shooting silver-tipped arrows into medieval werewolves, picking the lock of Merlin's castle to steal spells, and tossing rock salt grenades at the ghosts of other grunts, pissed about dying too soon on the battlefield."

"Sounds about right." Dean ran his thumb around the circle that backed the amulet. "The circle–that's the Round Table, right? Representing the equality of all men?"

Sam nodded. "And the eternity of God, and the unity and comradeship of the order."

Dean smiled. "For one little amulet, it's got quite a mouth." He placed it reverently back in the box and pushed it toward Sam.

"Yeah." Sam stared at it. "I've been doing some research on it. As far as I can tell, Dean, it's the only one still in existence. There are records of the symbol because of paintings, stories….but the amulets, they've all been lost–or hidden."

Dean smiled. "Then let's just call it our 401K. If we're ever in a pinch financially–"

Sam snorted. "When aren't we in a pinch?"

"Sad, but true." Dean stood up with a groan. "Right, I'm off to make sand-warlocks. You want one?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks. But lay off the beer. Doc says alcohol doesn't play nice with the drugs you're on."

"Yeah, yeah…." Dean turned back and stared at Sam.

"What?"

"You OK?"

Sam frowned, but nodded. "I'm fine."

"No B.S." Dean gestured to Sam's arm. "That's not gonna fall off in your sleep or anything?"

"It's good, Dean. Once the stitches are out, I'm back to a hundred per cent." Sam bit back a smile. "OK, a major league pitching career is out."

Dean's eyebrow peaked. "One, it's your left shoulder and you're right-handed, and two, you suck at baseball."

Sam grinned. "Then I've got nothing to worry about." He nodded at Dean. "You took good care of me."

"Damn straight I did." Seemingly reassured, Dean turned and headed for the kitchen. His phone rang when he was halfway across the room. He grinned when he caught sight of the caller display, then lifted the phone to his ear. "Charlie…. You are never gonna guess who we just met…."

Sam smiled, picked up his pen and got back to work.

**Finis**

_"The Rounde Table at Wynchestere beganne, and ther it ende, and ther it hangeth yet"_

– **John** **Hardyng, Chronicle of ****England**** (1463)**

**xxxXXXxxx**

**_A/N_**_: It is fact that the Round Table thought to have inspired Arthurian legend hangs to this day in the Great Hall of __Winchester__ Castle in __England__. It is believed to date back to around 1290, is 5.5 metres in diameter, weighs 1200 kg and 24 knights could sit comfortably around it. (Sorry, that's me channeling Sam, getting my geek on!). As the boys says, there is great debate over whether Camelot (in some form) actually existed and, if it did, where it was. I choose to believe it's in __Winchester__ – a fitting birthplace for a long line of hunters. __J This story was inspired by that wonderful scene in The Great Escapist, where Sam remembers Dean reading to him from the Classics Illustrated comic_. _I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear from you. Thanks so much for reading. Below are the vows of the Knights of the Round Table, from which the title of this story was taken. Until next time, cheers! _

**_King Arthur's Charge  
to the  
Knights of the Round Table_**

**_(From the website )_**

_God make you a good man and fail not of beauty. The Round Table was founded in patience, humility, and meekness. Thou art never to do outrageousity, nor murder, and always to flee treason, by no means to be cruel, and always to do ladies, damsels, and gentle women succour. Also, to take no battles in a wrongful quarrel for no law nor for no world's goods._

_Thou shouldst be for all ladies and fight for their quarrels, and ever be courteous and never refuse mercy to him that asketh mercy, for a knight that is courteous and kind and gentle has favor in every place. Thou shouldst never hold a lady or gentle woman against her will._

_Thou must keep thy word to all and not be feeble of good believeth and faith. Right must be defended against might and distress must be protected. Thou must know good from evil and the vain glory of the world, because great pride and bobauce maketh great sorrow. Should anyone require ye of any quest so that it is not to thy shame, thou shouldst fulfil the desire._

_Ever it is a worshipful knights deed to help another worshipful knight when he seeth him a great danger, for ever a worshipful man should loath to see a worshipful man shamed, for it is only he that is of no worship and who faireth with cowardice that shall never show gentelness or no manner of goodness where he seeth a man in any danger, but always a good man will do another man as he would have done to himself._

_It should never be said that a small brother has injured or slain another brother. Thou shouldst not fail in these things: charity, abstinence and truth. No knight shall win worship but if he be of worship himself and of good living and that loveth God and dreadeth God then else he geteth no worship here be ever so hardly._

_An envious knight shall never win worship for and envious man wants to win worship he shall be dishonoured twice therefore without any, and for this cause all men of worship hate an envious man and will show him no favour._

_Do not, nor slay not, anything that will in any way dishonour the fair name of Christian knighthood for only by stainless and honourable lives and not by prowess and courage shall the final goal be reached. Therefore be a good knight and so I pray to God so ye may be, and if ye be of prowess and of worthiness then ye shall be a Knight of the Table Round._


End file.
